The Exception
by Vyscaria
Summary: AU (or is it?). After being saved from Solomon's Temple by none other than Robert de Sable, Kadar bears witness to the true lives of the Christian "infidels". As events begin to unfurl around him, he must question his trust in the Order, his trust in God, and his own identity. Robert wants to do everything he can to "save him", and Kadar just can't fathom why.
1. Chapter 1

Totally deanon'd again from the kinkmeme.  
Original prompt:_ Kadar didn't die. He was brought back to Templar's HQs and treated back to life because De Sable really was only after Altaïr and Al Mualim and thus wasn't really interested in harming innocents._

This could almost be taken as an AU of A Thousand Sordid Images, considering my OC knight Jacques de Sonnac has wormed his way in once more. Hopefully this fic will help expand Robert's character, as well as the image of the Templar knights in general. Gosh, I don't know of any other AC writer that loves Templars as much as I do. Anyway, I absolutely love Kadar (he gets scammed too much in my other works), so let's see what happens if he lives. I don't think there will be slash, but who knows?

* * *

_The Exception_

* * *

He kept throwing himself at them with the ignorant passion of youth. It was unfortunate, but Robert had neither the time nor space to feel sorry when he sliced through the boy's leg. While he was distracted by the pain and sudden splashing of blood everywhere, the Templar Grand Master drew back his sword and hit him with its hilt- a crack was heard, and then the assassin collapsed in a growing pool of his own blood. The other Saracen shouted something unintelligible, and Robert swerved his head from side to side to look for his interpreter and emergency mediator…

"Sir Jacques!" he called out, and then remembered that said knight did not come with them this day.

The remaining assassin fought with all his fury and burning, going on the offensive and flinging himself against the knights, who parried and absorbed the flurry of blows. Amidst the whirling, rattling blows of swords, his knights yelled for his guidance, "Monsieur de Sable, this man is suicidal!"

And so he was. For one Saracen to battle eight of the most feared warriors in all the world- it was nothing short of self-destruction. Robert was a soldier, a monk, and a knight. He was a knight of the Temple. He was not a cruel man. "Draw back your arms and see if he surrenders," he ordered his men in Frankish, and then in broken Arabic in hopes the man would understand. He'd only wanted to scare them, to make them run. Never in a million years would Robert have thought that these Saracens would actually fight back against such impossible odds. Riding through the desert, just the sight of a single Templar knight could send an entire Saracen section running for the hills. Robert couldn't come to terms with why these men were fighting back.

Obediently, all his knights lowered their swords at the same time, keeping their sights tight on every nuance of shifting balance from the attacking assassin. Still, the Saracen did not seem to notice, and saw it as an opening to swing himself in full pirouette- he nearly struck one of the knights, but the Frank was better trained and was able to block the attack at the last moment, pushing his sword around in a giant circular motion. With a flick of his wrist, the knight disarmed the assassin in more than one way. "Your companion is dead, assassin!" One knight shouted in heavily accented Arabic, "surrender!"

The assassin again cried something unintelligible… but the words themselves sounded like open wounds. Then he scurried away to grab the treasure that was at the root of all this conflict. As he climbed the rubble, he was an absolutely miserable sight- sobbing with grief, gasping for breath, whimpering from the pain of his injuries. Eight knights below watched him, fully armed and none injured. If they wanted, they could crush him with a thought.

"Monsieur-" gasped one of the knights, already loading an arbalest with a steel tipped bolt and looking at Robert for the permission to fire.

"Non," Robert barked back, "let him take it. Those jackals at Masyaf will know the true fury of Christendom."

His knight nodded then, silently realizing the strategy of their inaction. To the Templars, the assassins at Masyaf posed an issue due to their expansive power, influence, connections with outposts in the Holy Land, and their dangerously ambiguous intentions. Yet King Richard, the figurehead of the Christian forces, was indifferent towards them and regarded them as mere pests. The knights Templar knew better. To have an assassin run off with the Ark of the Covenant would solidify in Richard's mind the need to lay siege on Masyaf and destroy these assassins at last. The King would not stand for such a humiliation against Christianity, and laying siege to Masyaf to regain the Holy Relic should prove motivation enough.

So they turned their backs and let the scoundrel assassin plunder his share and scramble his way out of the temple's ruins. After he'd gone, they came over the bleeding boy, and quickly realized that their assumption was wrong... but now he was abandoned by his brethren and cast away to die.

The one Hospitaller with them removed his helmet and began tending to him at once, muttering all the while about cruel Saracens, their barbaric manners of treating their comrades, their stupidity. "God's throat," he sighed under his breath when he saw that the cut did not sever any major arteries. The young man would live, given the appropriate care. "Why in the world did they keep fighting?"

"I know not, Sir Alexander," Robert replied with a shrug, removing his bloodied leather gloves and slapping them against a rock nearby to clean them. "Can you save his life?"

By this time the other Templars were also gathered around the bleeding youth, murmuring uninformed pieces of advice to the Hospitaller (who did not listen because he obviously knew better). "Tie his leg up," one said. "No, no, pour some flour into his wounds, I hear it helps with clotting," another rebuked. "Are you all idiots? Cut the leg off," suggested another. In the end they all fell quiet and watched the skilled Hospitaller knight tie a strip of cloth around the leg to slow the blood flow and apply a thick pad of gauze.

"God willing, he will live for now," said Sir Alexander, removing his glove and pressing the back of his hand against the sweating boy's forehead to check his temperature. "But where will we take him?"

"With us, back to Acre," Robert nodded for two men to help carry the assassin. "Load him on a spare horse, with that dead soldier in the upper chamber, and let us make haste before night falls."

* * *

They were eight knights crossing a difficult wadi on the path to Acre, their plumed helms reflecting the soft moonlight and their mantles fluttering in the wind behind them. Seven knights were cloaked in white, with the red Templar cross displayed prominently over their breasts and shields, while one knight was clad in black with the white Hospitaller cross embroidered into the shoulder of his mantle. Normally they would be camped and sleeping by now, but Robert wanted to press on while the weather was good.

"How is the Saracen?"

The Hospitaller appeared concerned. "My lord, I suspect he has a concussion, and maybe a broken rib or two. But his leg is still bleeding… if he loses more blood or becomes feverish, he will surely die."

Robert narrowed his eyes and nodded his acknowledgement, drawing the reins of his horse up and rising in the stirrups. "Then we will ride faster. Hyah!" He dug his heels unto the horse's flanks and urged the beast to move faster. If there was one thing he detested most, it was youths dying needlessly- pointlessly. Their work caused much inevitable bloodshed, but Robert avoided it when he could. This young assassin was a Saracen but he was not an enemy, and he did not deserve to die. God's fury be upon his soul if Robert let him perish. In Kadar's dying breaths Robert saw and felt the last moments of the innumerable children and youths whose deaths the Templars were responsible for… to save one life might not save his own soul, but Robert was saving Kadar for God.

Eventually, however, they had to stop to feed their horses and take a rest. With the crescent moon hanging over the night sky, the knights quickly set up camp. They laid down their bedrolls and quilts, hastily assembling makeshift overhead coverings. Robert dismounted from his horse and let the beast be led away by a knight designated to feed and groom them. Sir Alexander gingerly manoeuvred the wounded assassin into his arms, carrying him like how a man would carry his wife to their marriage bed. Robert sniggered, and this drew a look of poison from the English Hospitaller.

They set him down on a bedroll and Sir Alexander kneeled beside his head, carefully lifting the assassin's head and resting it over his thighs. Robert undid his own canteen, a leather horn, and carefully began to pour a steady flow of water between the youth's cracked lips. He was an attractive boy, with a well-proportioned face and noble features. A little wiry, but Robert suspected that if he were trained and fed well he could become a terrifying warrior.

"Sir Robert, forgive me for asking…" Sir Alexander and Robert worked together in perfect harmony, the Hospitaller reaching into one of his numerous pouches strapped to his waist and withdrawing a pinch of salt, which he dropped in Robert's water skin.

"Ask what you wish, friend," said Robert, shaking his water skin to dissolve the salt before repeating the action of slowly pouring it into the Saracen's mouth while the other massaged his throat to induce swallowing.

"Why didn't you leave him to die?"

"Because he is a Saracen?"

"Aye Sir. We Hospitallers rarely get involved in armed battles, but is it not the Templar custom to slay Saracens? They are not even human beings, but devils in human form. They impale Christian babies over fires and eat them, they fornicate with animals; they are the scum of the earth." As the words tumbled out of his mouth, Sir Alexander's tone rose- he could no longer hide his own growing disbelief at Robert's orders.

"Sir Hospitaller," Robert chuckled warmly, "do not forget that you were the first to kneel yourself down to tend to his wounds."

"Aye," Alexander was caught unawares, "but blood is blood, and torn flesh is just that. I was trained to treat wounds when I saw them. I acted without thinking."

"And so you were trained well. Sometimes thinking too much can lead to more harm than good." Robert strapped his water skin to his waist again and brushed the sand off his steel mail and surcoat.

Needless to say, the other knight was confused. "But the Pope-"

"The Pope is in Rome, and this is Outremer. Does a snail know how it got its shell?" Robert clapped Alexander on the back and waved to where the rest of the knights were congregating and sharing their rations. "Come on now, come eat with us."

Reluctantly, the conflicted Hospitaller left his patient and joined the Templars in their very late meal.

* * *

When Kadar awoke, for some reason he thought himself at home in Masyaf. But then as consciousness leeched back into him, he became aware of the stark differences- the air smelled like burnt basil, not frankincense. There was too much light, and the blankets were not as soft… He slowly blinked his eyes open as they adjusted to the brightness-

Suddenly a blue eyed man leaned over him and smiled.

"Ahhh!"

"Salaam aleikum!" The blue eyed man -such a startling sight- said with the widest smile. His shoulder length blond hair, the color of wheat, was tied back and his chin was neatly shaved. Even worse, he wore the chain and surcoat of a Templar knight.

Kadar blinked his eyes hard, then shook his head and blinked again. Was he dreaming? Was this Christian infidel actually speaking to him in the tongue of the Faithful? This surely must be some sort of cruel joke. "R-robert de Sable," Kadar stammered, because that was all he knew to say… Then he whimpered, because the act of speaking caused pain to lace up his side. Was he injured? He couldn't remember anything. Kadar ripped away the white sheets covering his body and raised himself up on a breath- only to have all of it forced out of his lungs by the sheer magnitude of the pain and nausea that flooded him.

"Do not move," the infidel said in fluent Arabic, "I will call for the Grand Master." He tucked Kadar's sheets in with those pale hands, the same hands that have killed so many… And he was gone.

Kadar sank back into the white cotton sheets and trembled. Where was he? Who was that man? Why was he here? _Why wasn't he dead?_

They were going to torture him. That had to be it. They were going to torture and interrogate him so he'd spill all the secrets of the Order, and then they were going to kill him. But what could he do? Kadar tried to turn on his side, but that again resulted in a wave of nausea that forced him onto his back again. The room spun around him, but he caught sight of a lot of brown… wood. Well, what did he expect? _Gold?_ His right leg felt very warm, like it was being soaked and waved around in warm water. The sensation was not unpleasant, and before long Kadar found himself drifting off again…

Until, of course, he heard Robert de Sable's voice in the halls. Kadar quickly shut his eyes and pretended to be sleeping- too afraid to want to deal with the consequences of being awake.

Robert entered the room and paused, utterly silent. A shuffle of robes and then more footsteps. He was not alone.

"T'as dit qu'il reveillé." That was Robert's voice, though Kadar couldn't understand what was being said since the Templar spoke in Frankish.

"Oui, c'est vrai," someone else replied, again in Frankish. Kadar was beginning to sweat and took slightly deeper breaths to calm down his racing heart. Taking deeper breaths made him dizzy with pain too- his ribs!

"I have no …time to play this game," Robert said in very broken Arabic, pointedly for Kadar to hear. "Sir Jacques, your grasp of his language is better than mine. You tell him what he needs to know."

"No," Kadar spoke up suddenly, opening his eyes and slowly turning his head to the side to catch sight of Robert and his companion- the same blue eyed knight that was there when he woke. "I want to hear it from you, de Sable," he spat, "what have you done with my brother? What are you going to do with me?" He was no longer afraid, because he knew in his heart that he was going to die anyways. There was no way they were going to let him go now… now all that mattered was knowing if Malik was safe.

Robert looked down on him, and by the sight of his clothes Kadar realized some time must have passed since the incident at Solomon's Temple. For one, the Templar was cleaned and was clad in a suit of supple mail, over which he wore the mantle of the Knights Templar. His mailed hood hung down at his back, leaving his shaven head uncovered. Aside from a longsword strapped to his waist, Robert de Sable appeared unarmed. How long had it been? A day? _Two?_

"Fine," said the knight, and said something in Frankish to his companion. The man nodded and went out of Kadar's periphery. The sound of a chair being dragged across the ground, some creaking as the man sat down. Papers being flipped, and Kadar couldn't even move his head to look at what he was doing! He felt so weak… never had he felt so useless. Robert, on the other hand, was kind enough to stay in Kadar's field of vision, stepping over to a counter where he took a sip out of a goblet of wine. Kadar waited, every hair on his body standing on its end. Slowly, he was gaining his bearings again. He was on a bed. He was in a guestroom of some sort, since this appeared to be the only bed in the room. There was a desk now- he could see it while managing to keep Robert in the corner of his vision. The blond knight was writing something in a giant book. A little like a Rafiq or a Dai as he ran the bureaus… No. Kadar could not make that comparison! There were a number of shelves lining the wall, stacked with papers, writing utensils, inks, supplies, and the like. It was an office. What was a bed doing in an office? More importantly, _why was Kadar on it?_ He looked back to Robert and swallowed his light-headedness. "What are you going to do to me?"

Instead of answering, Robert lowered his brass goblet and wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, motioning to where the blond knight was working. "That man there," he said carefully, "is the Seneschal. He works the books, handles the movement of men, the… _ueeuh_" he grasped for the right Arabic words, "… _pack trains_, the food… He took care of you for the last two days while you slept."

Stunned and confused, Kadar could only nod and remember to close his mouth. Thankfully, Robert did not need further prompting to continue. "I am the Grand Master of the Templar Order, as you know. But I bet you didn't know…" he touched the edge of Kadar's bed to make sure there was nothing under the blankets before he sat himself down on the bed and started to undo the heavy sword at his waist. Kadar's breath caught in his throat… he tried to move his legs but the Templar's wait pulled on the sheets and it literally sealed his body to the bed. "I bet you didn't know," said Robert, "that I was a shipmaster before this?"

That was unexpected. "Uh?" Kadar didn't know if he should be speaking. This tension, this _not knowing_, it was exhausting. What was he supposed to say anyway when the enemy started to talk about his past? Certainly no one instructed him on what to do in this situation. Kadar quickly looked around for anything he could use as a weapon- nothing in his reach…

"That's right," Robert passed the goblet to Kadar, the heady scent of wine wafting over the rim. "Until recently, my council assigned task was to tend to the trading ventures of… certain families… friendly to each other. I handled shipping and cargoes, I learned navigation and the mathematics of commanding ships at sea. I never dreamed I'd become Grand Master of the Templar Knights, you see?" He paused, wondering why Kadar was acting so dumbstruck. "Oh, my apologies," he withdrew the goblet and set it on a table to his side, "I forgot that wine is forbidden for you."

Blinking wasn't doing it. Surreptitiously pinching himself wasn't doing it either. How was Kadar supposed to wake from this insane dream? "What are you trying to get at?"

"What's your name?"

"Stop dodging my questions, you son of a whore!"

The scratching by the desk suddenly stopped- the room grew so quiet that Kadar could hear Robert's every measured breath. _Be angry!_ He wished, because seeing Robert like this was scaring him even more. Templars were not supposed to be kind people. They were not supposed to nurse assassins back to life and speak to them as equals. Robert de Sable was not supposed to apologize for accidentally offering Kadar wine.

Sadly, it did not evoke any reaction from Robert other than a few slow, menacing blinks. "I think you are forgetting who holds the power here, my friend. I am not dodging your questions, merely entertaining them. What am I to do while my men are on the march to Masyaf?"

"You-"

"That's right," Robert rubbed his temple and cringed "Two thousand men are about to lay siege to your fortress in Masyaf, and I am not with them."

"Why?!" Kadar demanded, his spittle flying out in his uncontainable rage, "why didn't you go with them, you fiend? Are you afraid that my brothers will cut you down like the rotten curd you are?!"

"I couldn't go with them because the operation was deemed simple enough for a lesser commander to take my place and use it as training."

That was a truly devastating blow. "You-!"

"William de Rochforte, that's his name…"

"I don't care! I'll kill you!"

Robert laughed, and so did the knight at the ledgers. "That's a heavy statement for you, my friend, considering we had to bathe you and wipe you when you soiled yourself-"

"_Why?_" he cried, desperate, clutching at his sheets and gasping for breath under the constriction of his wounded lungs. "Why would you do this?"

"Because I didn't want you to die," the Grand Master simply said in heavily accented Arabic, looking down at his calloused hands.

"Why am I _here_, then? Why not throw me with the rest of your Saracen prisoners in the damned dungeons?"

"Because you aren't a Saracen prisoner. You do not fight under Saladin, correct?"

"I fight for the Order, for Al Mualim."

Robert had surprisingly clear eyes, and Kadar noticed that they were not in fact completely brown. They were amber in this light, glowing with slight fragments of gold and near-green. His face was set like a spade, very angular and strikingly well-proportioned with the innate look of a warrior and leader in his prime. The man was looking at him now, hearing his words but not quite being moved. "Right, anyway- if all goes well it will be an Order no more."

"Then why did you keep me alive if not to torture me?"

"I told you already," Robert stood up and stretched his arms above his head, completely at ease. Then he even had the audacity to yawn! "You are a warrior, or at least you are training to become one. I am a warrior. We have no wrong between us and I have no cause to kill you."

Incredulous, Kadar nearly shouted, "I _attacked you!_"

"Because you were an _idiot_, nothing more. We are going to treat your wounds."

"To use me as ransom?"

"…seeing how your companion was so eager to leave without you, I'm not quite sold on your worth."

No, no… it couldn't be… "Malik?" His brother was eager to leave him? He was injured and close to death, and Malik simply… _left?_ Part of him was glad that Malik was alive and able to flee, but the feeling of being abandoned by his own brother was an even worse insult than having been rescued by Templars. "My brother wouldn't…"

"His brother's name is Malik," Robert said to Sir Jacques, who jotted it down without a word.

"What- what are you doing, you bastard?" So they were interrogating him after all!

Suddenly aggravated, Robert unknowingly reverted back to his native tongue, shouting "Tais-toi!" and then corrected himself, "my patience is wearing thin, assassin. I kept you safe, treated your wounds, I answered your questions, and you won't even tell me your name! Putain de Saracen," he swore, then threw a look at Jacques, "I will be in the courtyard if you need me."

Sir Jacques stood and brought his fist to his left breast in a salute, which Robert returned. Then the Grand Master retrieved his sword from Kadar's bedside (had that been there this whole time?!) and strode out of the room without a look back, shutting the door behind him.

Curiously exhausted, Kadar collapsed in on himself and tried to make sense of what'd just happened. He couldn't remember who cut him or injured him, though he did recall falling and praying to Allah that he'd live. Because there was so much more for him to do- to become a real assassin, maybe even a Master assassin, to get his own hidden blade… And now a Christian army was on their way to lay siege to Masyaf. Did they know? Is Malik there?

Altair.

Where was he? Was he alive? Kadar's thoughts slowed to a crawl. All of this was Altair's fault, wasn't it? But no, if Kadar hadn't egged him on, fed his ego, then all of this wouldn't have happened.

The knight at the desk coughed.

"Please," Kadar whispered to him, and then had to repeat it louder until he finally got the older man's attention. The slate blue eyes that rose to meet his were disgustingly kind for a Templar. Where were all these men before? How come Kadar had never heard of Templars with eyes like an April day? Kadar had seen Altair and Malik kill a number of Templars, all of them wearing their metal helms. What kind of men were they underneath?

"Yes?" prompted the knight, and Kadar had to snap himself out of his thoughts.

"Is my brother alive?"

Sir Jacques lowered his gaze and sighed quietly, just the barest expulsion of breath. "I cannot say, since I was not there with Sir Robert when he took on the expedition to Solomon's Temple." His Arabic was perfect, and Kadar couldn't help but marvel at it. "I should have come. If I'd come, maybe I could have convinced you to stop fighting. We had no desire to hurt you."

Kadar found that exceedingly hard to believe. "Don't lie to me, Templar."

"No, truly." Jacques turned a page and trained his eyes on that, and Kadar thought he was done speaking. But then the knight's brows abruptly furrowed and he slammed the thick ledger shut. "Sir Robert hadn't thought you'd fight back. Insha'Allah, God willing, you will forgive him."

If there was any testament to be found for the transformative powers of faith, it was this. In a moment, in a second, Kadar knew he trusted this strange knight completely. The tears came unbidden to his eyes, and he blinked out the evidence of his grief and pain. "If you were there, if you'd _said that_, I would have stopped. If not for trust, then for shock." To hear a knight speak the name of Allah would have made anyone –even Altair- drop their sword in surprise.

Jacques didn't reply, didn't apologize. He just took several deep breaths, and then opened the ledger again.

Knowing that the knight must feel some amount of guilt, Kadar decided to take advantage of their time alone to ask the questions he could not ask Robert. The knight answered all of his inquiries briskly.

"Are they really marching on Masyaf?"

"Yes."

"How many men?"

"Two thousand."

"Why?"

"The long term cause or the immediate cause?"

"Both."

"As you know, your Order has been causing much trouble with… with the Crusading cause. Your brothers have killed a number of mine, and we don't like each other." And then he added bitterly, "you know this."

Kadar swallowed nervously, because somehow in the last few minutes he'd forgotten that he was speaking to a highly trained and dangerous knight. Jacques really had no reason to feel guilty because the assassins have killed so many Templars! Kadar really had no leverage at all. "…and the immediate cause?"

"Your brother Malik took the Holy Relic we were searching for. The King wants it."

"Who?"

"The King."

"What King?"

"King Richard."

"...who...?"

"Richard Plantagenet is the King of England."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Where am I?"

"Acre, the Templar fortress."

"…am I bothering you?" Even though Kadar was in a sticky situation, he was still childish at heart. The words fell out without him realizing, and he closed his mouth immediately.

Jacques showed no sign of being affected, and just continued on scribing in his ledger. "I am not used to people sleeping in my workroom."

"Then why did they put me here?"

"Because if we put you anywhere else, someone might murder you while you slept."

"O-oh."

Silence for a while, and then the pressing issue of Masayf kicked Kadar in the back of the head. "I need to go back to Masyaf."

Jacques blinked. "You'd be an idiot. It'll be days and maybe weeks before you can walk again."

"…" Kadar didn't even know what to think. It was just one shock after the other. He lifted the sheets up and saw that his two legs were whole, but his right leg was badly swollen in the thigh, and it wasn't just the bandaging. As though seeing the wound made him suddenly aware of it, that leg began to throb steadily. There was absolutely no conceivable way that he was going to escape on this leg... and if Malik thought he was dead, then no one was going to look for him.

Even if, my some miracle, he managed to escape. would Masyaf even take him back? Would Malik survive the siege? Was the siege real or a lie? It was too late now. _Did anyone even know he was alive?_ Kadar couldn't breathe, so he drew the blankets over his head with leaden arms and closed his eyes, praying to God that when he opened them, he'd be back at home.

He must have gone to sleep, because when he opened his eyes again he was assaulted by a raving hunger. Something delicious was in the air, like nothing he'd ever smelled. He couldn't even describe it. Was it Frankish food? Despite himself, he tried to prop himself up as much as possible on his elbows and locate the source of the delectable smell. He certainly hadn't expected to lay eyes on Robert de Sable again so soon.

This time Robert was speaking to another knight that Kadar did not recognize. The knight was carrying two plates of hot food, and seemed to be _calmly_ arguing something. It was strange to see the enemy interact with each other in some civil terms. If not for the chain mail and swords, the scene would have looked somewhat domestic. Their conversation was carried out in a fast, guttural Frankish. It was the lesser knight who saw Kadar was awake first, and his thick brows immediately knitted in distaste. As soon as Robert noticed Kadar, he took both plates of food from his hands and immediately dismissed him.

The young assassin desperately searched the room for the familiar blond haired knight, but there was no sign of him. Kadar was completely alone now with Robert, and he didn't like it one bit.

It was clear to him that Robert was upset at something, since he looked like someone hit him in the face or something of the sort. Kadar shook his head- no, he could not lower his guard. The moment he started to make jokes at Robert, all would be lost. He'd made peace (somewhat) with the fact that he was going to be stuck here until he recovered enough to walk, and he had to rely on the enemy for his survival. He had to keep hope that Masyaf would survive, that somehow Malik was alive, that there was still a place for him in the Order despite the prospects looking more and more glum. Two thousand well trained soldiers and knights would surely wipe out Masyaf as he knew it- no amount of preparation or warning could save them now… now only Allah could save them.

...So he might as well suck up his pride and eat something.

Robert set down the two plates of food on Jacques' work desk, and now Kadar could see what was on them. Each plate held a roll or bread of some sort, half a game bird, boiled vegetables, and a bean mash. It smelled divine to Kadar's empty stomach, even though he'd had grander feasts at Masyaf. But Robert just stood there with his back to Kadar, unhooking his thick white mantle, unbuckling his gear, unstrapping his sword… it was like he was pointedly ignoring him. Kadar wasn't about to beg him for food, so he too played the game of silence.

Until, of course, his stomach betrayed him by growling _feeeeeed meeeee_.

Damn.

* * *

_End of Ch 1._

* * *

Good job, Kadar. Good job... (I so love to mess with him.) I'm going to post this in parts as I write them because I think otherwise my fics are too much to read all at once. **For anyone who's read my other works, please let me know if cutting it up into chapters helps. **

**Please leave your feedback, critique, and thoughts! Next chapter will be out hopefully very soon. Thank you C: **


	2. Chapter 2

"Where is Jacas?" Kadar demanded immediately, trying in vain to cover up his hunger.

Robert turned around raised an eyebrow. "Sir Jacques," he corrected, "is in the dining hall having his meal. I've brought you yours." He took the two plates from the desk and practically dropped them both on Kadar's bedside table. The plate could have broken from the force, and certainly Kadar was startled by it.

"You're angry."

"No."

"Yes."

"I'm always like this. You caught me in an unusually good mood earlier."

Kadar laughed without thinking, then shut his mouth and winced.

Robert dragged Jacques' chair noisily from behind his desk to settle by Kadar's bed, and then sat down on it, taking one of the plates in his lap and taking up a piece of bread. "Are you in pain?" He bit into it and chewed.

No, Kadar wasn't in pain. He winced because he was horrified to have laughed at Robert. Still, he was normally a cheerful and easily impressed young man- he couldn't hide his nature for long. He eyed the plate of food by his side, the plate that was meant for him. He couldn't lift himself up higher than propping himself on his elbows without pain, and already his back and neck was getting sore. He looked to Robert, who was completely involved in his meal and not even paying attention. Kadar had to wonder if he was doing this on purpose.

"Will you please help me…?"

There was no doubt that he'd been ignoring him on purpose, since the moment Kadar pleaded with him the Templar immediately put down his food. "Let's get you sitting, then." He got up, wiped his hands on hi surcoat, and leaned over Kadar- he was a giant of a man! Very carefully, he cupped the back of Kadar's arms with his hands and supported the younger man as he pushed himself up gingerly, cringing at the twinges of pain dancing up his ribs. Robert even took the initiative of pulling Kadar's pillows up to support his back while he adjusted himself. Kadar would be lucky to receive this level of kindness from a healer at Masyaf, nevermind from Robert. He found he couldn't look at the knight. Even with Robert handed him his tempting plate of food, Kadar just accepted it with a murmured thanks.

Robert sat himself down again and continued where he left off, biting into his bread roll and chewing with an almost exaggerated passion. Kadar had never seen any man eat like that, and while he chewed daintily on his own bread roll (manners were the mark of a true man) he couldn't help being entranced. The Templar ate like he fought and lead- with precision, with speed. If he bit on a bone, Robert didn't spit it out; he just chewed it more and swallowed it. _What a savage!_ Kadar watched him reach for a kerchief and wipe his mouth of grease from the bird. As he did this, Robert saw that Kadar was eating everything but the meat on his plate. "Why don't you eat the pigeon?"

"I don't- it's…" Kadar had no way of knowing if it was killed properly in a manner befitting of Allah, or if it'd come into contact with impure foods. But he didn't want to upset Robert and potentially risk his own safety in doing so. Grudgingly, Kadar had to admit that he was totally dependent now on the Templar Grand Master for his survival. No one could save him now, not when Masyaf was potentially under siege. Tentatively, he pushed aside his conflicts and began to eat the pigeon. It was moist and well-seasoned, and Kadar had no difficulty clearing his plate of the meat and them of the vegetable and bean mash. It was all very different from what he normally ate, but at this point in time he literally hadn't the strength to find any faults in the food.

"My name is Kadar," he said when he finished. He accepted the kerchief passed to him from Robert and wiped his mouth and hands of grease.

Robert took their plates away and set them outside the door. Then he shut the door and stared at Kadar with a staggering amount of anger. It was completely unexpected, and Kadar was starting to suspect that 'sudden mood changes' should be Robert's last name. "I'd forgotten you called me a son of a whore," he ground out, shaking his head in frustration. He was red all the way up to the ears.

In retrospect, Kadar was just trying to act big by using big curses. "I didn't mean to insult your mother." He hadn't thought Robert would actually take offense. He had no kind feelings towards the Templars, but still he was taught from a young age to be the bigger man. He was not considering his words when he said them, and now he was in no position to be insulting the one man whose powers kept him alive.

"You don't understand," he mumbled, taking the chair from Kadar's bedside and placing it back behind Jacques' desk. "My mother is not a whore." Then he started to re-dress himself, laying his Templar mantle over his shoulders.

"Wait," Kadar reached out, "don't go."

"I have to."

"I'm sorry I offended you!" _Ya Allah, how far had he gone?_ Kadar apologized to everyone whether he liked it or not. He always took the blame for everything. Even when Malik was wrong (practically never), Kadar was always the one to apologize. One day he was going to have to nip this habit.

"Never mind." He was at the door now.

Desperate for Robert to stay, because Kadar needed this matter settled damnit, he appealed to the man's sense of pity. "I need my bandages changed on my leg! Please?"

Robert turned and snarled, "do I look like a _fucking nurse?_ Putain de Saracen!"

The door opened, one very angry knight passed through, and then it slammed shut.

Kadar felt like he was going to cry, though he didn't know why. He was a chastised child being punished for something he couldn't understand. He didn't know anything about Robert other than what everyone else knew… and that he was a shipmaster, apparently. Kadar had offended the Templar in a grave way, and he was determined to make it right despite the irrationality of it. Malik would call it his childish desire to please people. It was always Kadar's redeeming point. Altair would probably just call it stupidity, and Kadar would agree.

* * *

When Jacques came back, he saw Kadar and knew that something had happened. He also had to hide his surprise at finding him alone and unsupervised. There was a dagger in a drawer of the desk- if Kadar had bothered to look for it, Jacques might have just lost his life. Before making a cursory examination of his desk and workspace to ensure that no 'surprises' were set up for him, Jacques turned to the young Saracen utterly perplexed.

He asked Kadar what was wrong and Kadar told him everything. "I apologized but he was still angry. Is he going to kill me?"

Jacques settled himself down at his desk before looking over at Kadar warily. "You called him a son of a whore?"

"…yes…"

"That's unfortunate. He hates to be called that."

"Why?"

Quickly, the knight changed the subject. "How was your pigeon?"

"…good. How was yours?"

"I wouldn't know. That pigeon was bought and cooked for you."

"Has he heard the alarms, Jacques? The bells?"

"Yes, but he does not suspect…"

"Good. I have just offered my condolences to Sir Alexander, and we are on our way to Garnier de Naplouse's funeral. Ensure that no talk filters down to our _prisoner_ about the bastard Altair. I will find him, I swear by the stars."

"By the stars, Grand Master?"

"At least I can look up and see that the stars are there!"

They fed him, clothed him, allowed him his prayers, allowed him to listen to their conversations and exchanges… it was surreal. It was like a dream situation for a spy, and if only Kadar knew what to do! He wasn't sure if it was that they thought he was useless, posed no threat, or if they found some sort of perverse pleasure from studying him. Now that he knew they were not about to torture and kill him, the other possibilities stretched his mind… He felt his head was stuffed with cotton… were they drugging him?

There was Jacques de Sonnac, the Senechal, who diligently worked the ledgers every day as a Dai worked his bureau, drawing up maps and all sorts of papers to be delivered by his squire, who was only known as Oswald. Jacques was the one who dressed his wounds and cleaned him. When Kadar became feverish (he accidentally tore the stitches in his leg and didn't notice), it was he who treated him. Once in a while a knight clad in black would come in to check on his progress. His name was Alexander Whitelock, and he was a knight Hospitaller. Apparently the knights Templar and the knights Hospitaller were rival military orders in Christendom. Kadar never knew that before.

When he discovered Alexander's role in his survival, he was gushing with gratitude. "You saved my life," said Kadar most humbly to the English knight, who barely even looked up from his work. "I am indebted to you. I am your slave and servant." He owed this man his life- it was his code of honour. Any man who saved the life of one of Allah's faithful would gain his service _and_ a place in Paradise.

Jacques translated his statement into Frankish, and the Hospitaller frowned. It was translated again into English. Alexander scowled, "tell him I had no desire to save him. I regret it every day. If your Grand Master had not ordered it, I would have left him to die. Now excuse me, for the new Hospitaller Grand Master is an _idiot_ and I am running late."

Kadar waited for the Templar's translation, wanting to know what his saviour said.

"It was Robert de Sablé who saved you," Jacques explained simply, and then said nothing more. The wary smile dropped off Kadar's face.

* * *

"News, Jacques. _Tiens_."

"…_Mon Dieu_."

"Oui, with the Merchant King is dead in Damascus and now William de Montferrat killed also, I fear he will come after us. Those assassins are once again meddling in our affairs, and this time I fear the King won't intervene…"

"Yes, Monsieur."

* * *

Were they trying to gain his trust, for some reason? Why him? He was still a novice and held no intelligence of importance on the Order (disturbingly, he found out that the Templars knew a fair bit about the operations of the Order). Once in a while when they were alone Sir Jacques would talk to him about meandering subjects- the weather, food, France (Kadar loved hearing about Europe the most, even though the knight assured him it was not a very exciting place), even religion. They shared their insights on the Qur'an (each time with Kadar being at a cross with being offended or impressed) and Jacques allowed Kadar a copy of the Bible translated into Arabic (though Kadar never read it). At first Kadar thought Jacques was trying to win his trust in order to eventually manipulate him, but as the days passed and Kadar began to heal, he found the theory increasingly hard to believe.

Once in a while Robert would enter, his presence stifling all others present in the room. He never stayed for long, especially if other knights and men were in the office on their daily business. Eventually Jacques installed a curtain of sorts to divide Kadar from their stares of part inquiry and part disgust. There was no doubt in Kadar's mind that he would be killed if he attempted an escape before Robert was ready to release him. Somehow he'd landed in the Grand Master's palm, and who knows what he had planned for him? Each time he saw Robert, Kadar's spine stiffened- like he was expecting, waiting, for Robert to tell him to do something, to take advantage of his position as saviour and master.

Kadar had to pay Robert back somehow, and with each day that passed by the price of the debt was increasing. In the name of his honour, Kadar absolutely could not afford to owe the enemy such a debt.

_Why does he want from me?_ Kadar asked himself every day, and never heard an answer. The Templar Grand Master visited him very little after their last encounter. Over the days as he recovered, Kadar picked up an interesting dynamic between all the knights. Jacques and Alexander worked together relatively well on the surface, but Alexander didn't seem to trust the other. Jacques did not seem to like Robert very much, though he was quick to assert complete loyalty to the Grand Master when Kadar questioned him.

Through it all, Kadar kept diligent for any news from Masyaf. Once he was capable of sitting up on his own and possibly standing up, he was never left alone in the room. Always there was an armed knight working (or pretending to work), so he really never had a chance to break out. Once he caught a peek at the hallway outside the door. It was crammed with Frankish dignitaries, knights, soldiers, guards, civilians, diplomats, and the like. Escaping this way was impossible, and the archers stationed outside made the prospect of climbing down walls unlikely.

"Do you have any brothers, Jacas?"

Kadar couldn't actually pronounce "Jacques", but the knight in question appeared at peace with it.

"No," the other replied while dutifully sorting through a harrowing pile of papers. "I have a sister, and she lives in France. I take it you miss _your_ brother, Kadar?"

"Oh yes, I wish I knew if he were alive or not…" from the blank look on the blond's face, Kadar knew his pity-inducing sob story wasn't going to get him anywhere. "You will actually let me go, right?"

Jacques sighed. "You ask this every day, Kadar. Yes, we will let you go wherever you want after you have recovered insha'Allah."

"…Is Robert still angry at me?"

"I don't know."

"Why did I offend him?"

"I don't know, why _did_ you call his mother a whore?"

"…that's not what I meant."

"So I don't know."

"I'm sorry I'm such a bother to you."

"You are no bother to me."

"What can you tell me about Robert insha'Allah?"

"I don't know anything about him."

"…but you just… you obviously know why he is angry at me."

"It's because you called him a son of a whore."

"…so why is he offended by that?"

"I would be offended too if you called my mother a whore."

"Jacas!"

"I can't tell you. I am a knight of the Temple and he is my Master. I am bound to him by vows of obedience, sworn before God, Jesus Christ, and the Virgin Mary. I can say nothing more than that without being disloyal." Under his breath, Jacques muttered, "if only I'd accepted that position as the new regent… de Montferrat did a horrid job balancing the books… thank God the assassin killed him..."

Kadar did not hear the low words, and simply pressed on: "You don't like him."

It took a while for Jacques to understand that Kadar was referring to his Grand Master Robert de Sablé. "I obey him."

Kadar decided to go a different route. "Alhumdulilah, praise God, he's saved me, but why me?"

"Why you indeed?"

Obviously Jacques was not in a talking mood today, so Kadar shut up and stretched his legs under the blankets. When he looked back at the knight, he caught the other staring at him. "It's because you remind him of himself, I think."

"What?" Kadar laughed, "We are completely different."

"You'd be surprised," said Jacques with a wry smile, "I don't know why he's decided to keep you alive, to be honest. Morality is one thing, but it's only logical if applied to all accounts. I've never seen him show such mercy on any Saracen before, so I am at a loss. We all are."

"Is he doing this to repent for something?" He'd been playing around with the idea for a long time now.

Jacques looked up at him pointedly. "That is a _very interesting insight_. I wouldn't know. You should ask him."

"You don't want me here."

Jacques set down his pen and smiled very lightly. "You misunderstand me, Kadar. It makes no difference if I want you here or not- my Master has made the decision to save your life, and to sanction your presence the King has appointed me as your supervisor. What I want is not a matter."

How sad. Kadar frowned, a bitter taste coming to his mouth. He truly felt sorry for the knight now, forced to obey the orders of his master who was obviously a _damned infidel_. In addition, he also realized then that to get any real answers, he'd have to speak to Robert directly, and he was not looking forward to it. Every word was a leap of faith with no promise of straw at the end of the fall.

* * *

"Knight, speak."

"Ach du lieber Gott! Meistro Sibrand ist tot!"

"…you mean to say that Meistro Sibrand has died? How, in God's name?"

"Killed, Monsieur de Sablé! Killed by a Saracen dog!"

"…did you catch him?!"

"Nein, Monsieur, he escaped... First the Hospitaller Grand Master and now ours of the Knights Teutonic…"

"…what are you suggesting, good man?"

"…Nothing, I must go."

* * *

"Robert, you sluggard! By God's holy legs, you certainly took your time. We've been waiting here for eons! I almost thought the Saracens got you, too!"

The Templar Grandmaster removed his helm and kneeled to the King, who quickly stepped forward to correct him, "on your feet, my good friend! A bent knee that stays bent is a sign of subjugation, and I'll have none of that in the men who are my friends! And with all the funerals we've been having, I suspect your knees are already aching."

In good humour despite the horribly morbid jokes, Robert rose to his feet and clapped King Richard on the back, to the amusement of their entourage. Though Richard meant well, he did not always entirely follow his own preaching and could be very manipulative if he desired. Robert was expected not to bend his knee to the King in greeting, but in all other manners he was expected to bend himself backwards to obey all of his orders. It was only going to be a matter of time before Richard's tone changed.

In any case, they did not arrive here to joke this day. Passing his helmet and mantle to a squire, Robert straightened and crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing Richard's entourage impressive formal escort- two knights and two squires, the squires carrying the royal sword and the King's steel pot-helmet with the golden coronet winding around its tapered rim. Usually the King refused such an escort, so this sight was curious in itself.

The knight admitted the King into the Templar headquarters, Richard only slightly incensed that he needed to be supervised. With all the servants, knights, and squires of all kinds bowing to the King as he passed, Richard almost appeared to be Moses parting a sea of Christians. As the day had been long, they went into the first private room they saw, and prepared themselves for yet another tiring exchange of veiled threats blanketed by a shroud of diplomacy. Friends? Who could be _friends_ with a _King?_

"As you know, Robert," began Richard cordially, as though nothing at all mattered in the world, "the siege at Masyaf has failed. We have also confirmed that… the item stolen by the assassins is no Holy Relic."

"And how, my liege, have you confirmed that?" The two of them sitting down at the small round table in the middle of the room, Robert tried to clear all the silverware set out for dining to the side. A kitchen scullion ran up to help him.

Richard's eyes glimmered. He opened his mouth to speak, and then twisted his body around in his seat, furrowing his brows at the scullion, the four men still standing behind him, and the numerous other servants who'd followed them in. "Sirrah, why are you still here? You are dismissed, _all of you_." His escorts immediately bowed and exited, the scullion dropped what he was doing and scurried away, the servants tentatively lingering at the door…

"Out!"

They left too. As soon as the door closed soundly behind the last kitchen scullion, Richard turned back to Robert and whispered, "Masyaf is not worth our effort. I have said this from the start, Robert. We have other Holy Relics to recover if we wished- _hell_," Richard picked up a spoon, "if I wanted, I could declare _this_ a Holy Relic. I'd simply lighten my purse a little with the church, and it could be legitimate!"

Despite the joke that was so characteristic of Richard, his underlying message was not what he wanted to hear. "The assassins pose a higher threat than you think, my lord," Robert ground out, disgusted that still, after all this time, Richard was not yet convinced. Certainly the assassins were a bigger bother to the Templars than the rest of the Christian cause, however, since they disrupted Templar trading and diplomacy with the surrounding regions. Either Richard wanted to stunt the Templars' growth and wealth, or he had other priorities. Now with many key players of the Christian force suddenly dead under mysterious circumstances, Richard was on high alert and did not intend to risk his cause any further. And most importantly, he was beginning to suspect that Robert was on his way to set up a kingdom of his own in the Holy Land.

He moved his plates and silverware away, using his index finger to draw invisible tactical maps on the wooden table. "We laid siege to Masyaf and we failed. The assassins unleashed a torrent of logs at us- rolled us out of Masyaf like hounds, they did."

"Pah! That's nothing but bad strategy! I warned you about that de Rocheforte!"

"I will not march on Masyaf again," the King was adamant, "and I will not sanction your knights to go. What if we take Masyaf? We gain a bunch of prisoners who drain our resources. We'd have to occupy Masyaf, a fortress with absolutely no tactical or political importance to our cause." Both men knew that it was true. In light of Robert's silence, Richard continued passionately, "and I have practically sold London already. Also, we still have some three thousand prisoners from the siege of Acre to feed and shelter until Saladin pays his terms and meets his end of the bargain. The deadline is near and our resources are running thin. You know this. " At Robert's momentary silence, Richard took the chance to change the subject, "and how goes your… special prisoner? Do you believe he could be rehabilitated to… suit our needs?"

Robert swallowed his disgust and dropped his spoon. "I will remind you, my liege, that that was never my original intention."

The King laughed, "Robert, I know you better than you know yourself. And in any case, it is what I want. You intended to treat his wounds and save him from death out of your… Godgiven Christian goodness, or whatever. I only agreed to it under the condition that you attempt to… make an impression on him."

"If by making an impression you mean converting him to our cause, then my Lord you may be disappointed."

Disbelief. "But it's why I appointed Monsieur de Sonnac to watch over him!" Richard leaned back in his seat and counted the knight's qualities on one hand. "One, he can speak in the Saracen tongue. Two, he is schooled in the Koran. And three, he's a damn kind fellow. And your assassin prisoner is young, he is impressionable… God's throat, I wager that they've become good friends by now."

Robert argued audaciously against the King, "our agreement to him was to release him once he is healed. Truly do you think that he will trust us if we betray our one promise?"

"We owed him nothing to begin with," Richard retorted, "Robert, you are my close friend and I need not veil my words when I am in your presence… I ask you this frankly and may you answer me equally bluntly-" he leaned forward and slapped the words on the table in a harsh whisper, "are you keeping him for your pleasure?"

Bewilderment was not enough to describe Robert de Sable. He knew that King Richard preferred the company of men over that of women, but he never thought Richard would suspect such a thing of _him!_ "Good God, no! My lord, I would never gaggle that boy, or any boy or man." He would be lying if he said he'd never considered it, however. With the handsome Saracen boy so close, vulnerable, and readily available, Robert could have easily taken pleasure from him.

"And for that I am sorry… then… if not for pleasure, then for what?"

"I pray you won't think me too sentimental, my lord."

At this, the King rolled his eyes. "Is this what it's all been about? Sentimentality? Good man, Robert, I don't live a monkey's arse- just tell me what I ask. And by the way, call me Richard when we are alone… hell, call me Richard when we are on the battlefield, at my funeral. I want to be known as Richard Plantagenet to you, not King _whatever so forth_."

If there was one thing the King of England loved, it was to gather secrets. Yet he also loved a good story. In truth, however, Robert's secret was not quite so sensational. He saw in young Kadar his past image, the youth he once was before war, politics, and manhood marred his spirit and jaded his eyes. Kadar was a Saracen, but somehow Robert came away with the impression that he was only a young boy searching for his own place in the world. And if an adult knight could be taught Arabic and could read the Qur'an of his own accord, then maybe a Saracen boy could be taught Frankish and one day pick up a Bible on his own whim. Maybe… maybe he could be _saved_.

Robert had no real purpose of keeping him. Where Richard was looking for strategy, manipulation, some sort of logic behind his actions, Robert himself could not find one logical reason for saving Kadar aside from his own perverted desire to live again vicariously through the assassin. He'd seen something in Kadar that moved him, and he couldn't exactly tell _what_. It was a completely selfish and morbid curiosity to see what would happen if, instead of killing, he chose to save. He did have every intention to drop the assassin off at Solomon's temple once he recovered.

"It is my way to repent against the sins on my soul," he told Richard instead, and immediately tried to think of something else because the King didn't look like he believed it. The last thing he desired was to make the King angry. When overcome with pride, Richard was not a kind man. So he added a jab at church for good measure, "because God knows the idiot Pope can't help me."

Good humour was momentarily restored, but it still could not hide the underlying apprehension in Richard's face. "That you are right, friend. Each time I see those Bishops, that bunch of sanctimonious hypocrites, I just want to stick them with a brand!" The King stood up unexpectedly, forcing Robert also to jump to his feet. "Come now, for I am curious. Take me to this Saracen prisoner that so reminds you of yourself."

* * *

Once Kadar heard the failure of the siege at Masyaf, he considered his options. He could demand to leave now (and hopefully the knights will keep their promises and let him go free) or perhaps he could even gather some intelligence on the Templars while he was here. But he was not a spy, and how could he know that they were not purposefully feeding him the wrong information? Would there be a price he'd have to pay? He still found it hard to believe that the knights were doing this out of pure generosity. Would the latter harm his chances of survival? Possibly, but Kadar couldn't fathom why else he was put here by Allah. What was the meaning of this?

The knight Hospitaller removed the last of his bandages, and gingerly prodded the area where two halves of flesh were once stitched together. "He is well now," he reported in English, and Jacques nodded. Kadar looked between the two men and tried to read their body language to no avail.

"Thank you, Sir Alexander." Though his words were warm, Jacques' posture was very closely guarded.

"Right," the Hospitaller nodded his response, and then muttered under his breath, "damned prisoners… so many of them. Why doesn't the King just slay them all and be done with it?"

Without a look back at the man he saved from the brink of death, Sir Alexander Whitelock packed up his supplies and left the office, leaving Kadar in an awkward silence. He couldn't even say _thank you_.

Once Alexander was gone, Jacques noticed that the Hospitaller left his gloves behind.

It almost happened too quickly for Kadar to notice. Jacques picked up the gloves and went towards the door, opened it, and exited.

Kadar was alone for the first time in two weeks. He stared at the open door for a moment, noticed that the hall outside appeared empty, and then all his muscles snapped into action. He bolted towards the door. Although the Templars promised him freedom, Kadar hadn't forgotten whose mouth that promise came from. To trust it without doubt would be to trust a serpent not to bite. Stupidly, impulsively, Kadar threw himself out the door-

-and right into _the fucking King of England_ and his entourage.

"What ho!" cried Richard, jumping back and immediately raising both arms to his side to stop his escorts from charging forth and beheading the young man. The mentioned young man, on the other hand, nearly wet himself from the shock and proceeded to turn tail and run the other way-

-and right into fucking _Robert de Sable_, with Jacques following closely by and looking immensely disappointed. The universe really didn't like him today.

Effectively sandwiched, Kadar raised his hands over his head and surrendered with a pitiful whimper.

"And this is the Saracen prisoner I've been so hearing about," said the King, examining Kadar's attire- not prisoner's clothes, but an inner tunic that likely came with him, and plain pantaloons. "You would trust him to be alone?"

Before Jacques had the opportunity to look embarrassed and apologize, Robert was already dragging him over by the arm. "Sir Jacques, ask him where he is going."

Reluctantly, Jacques translated the question to Kadar, who, upon realizing that he was in the presence of a King, suddenly exploded with the need to make him understand that he was not broken. "I am leaving," he said with his chin tilted up, now lowering his arms and insolently staring the King in the face. The man's attitude disturbed Kadar- he felt like Richard was observing him as a master might examine a beast he was about to buy. Kadar's allegiance was with the assassins, and he wanted Richard to understand that.

Even without a translation, the message was clear. "No," the King ordered, "he won't leave."

Taken aback, though not entirely surprised, Robert stepped forward. "I promised him."

"You saved his life," argued Richard, widening his stance and resting both hands at his waist to appear even larger than he already was. "You owe him nothing."

"Then what do you plan to do with him?" Jacques cut in, "my King, we cannot keep him."

Brushing a hand through his red beard, Richard couldn't help but laugh- "what, you meant to take him in, heal him, feed him, and then just _let him go?_"

When both Templars just stared back at him in affirmation, the King bared his teeth and snarled, "you disappoint me. Think of the possibilities!" he motioned for the two noble knights in his entourage to take hold of Kadar, and they did. They bent him over forcefully and held his wrists together in a steel grip. Impervious to the youth's whimpers and demands of explanation, Richard went on, "we can train him to be a spy, an informant. We can train him to work and do our bidding. If he is truly the fledging warrior you claim him to be, then we can make him Sir Jacques' squire and see where it takes him."

All this time, Robert was getting redder and redder, but despite this no one expected his sudden outburst. "No!" he thundered, raising his fist as if to strike the King, who did not even flinch. Jacques immediately grabbed Robert's arm and pulled it down while escorts all reached for their swords at the same time. Some passing men gathered to watch the exchange from a distance. Robert was adamant. "I do not approve."

The outburst was met with a harsh whisper, "you do not _approve?_ Then we can behead him, put his head on a stick, and parade it in front of Masyaf. That'll show them what they get for insulting _my _army. You were right- the Saracen is just like you. _He smacks of insolence!_"

Kadar listened to this passionate exchange and could not decipher it, but he did understand the King's body language. He looked offended, deeply insulted, and was obviously threatening something. Kadar recognized this same posture as the one Malik adopted when he argued with Altair. Behind him, the knight was still tightly binding his wrists. He could not run. Instead, he caught Jacques' eyes and knitted his brows together in a silent apology. "Please," he mouthed.

"You will obey me!" Richard shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. In front of the gathering crowd, he attacked Robert directly. "You are at my allegiance! _Mine._" This forced Robert and Jacques to bend their left knees and kneel.

_Hypocrite_, thought Robert. The King was not finished with his tirade. "I've had enough of your secrets, Robert. I have done everything for you- I've sent men on your advice to lay siege to Masyaf. I've allowed you to trade and set up a bank. I've made you rich," he gestured violently to the small number of Templars surrounding them, all kneeling to his authority, "all of you! So much for the _humble knights of the Temple!_ How dare you disobey me? I am your king! Do you think me a horse to be whipped, Robert?"

"No, my liege-"

"Then you will do as I say."

"Yes, my liege."

With a flourish, Richard whirled himself around in pirouette and began to take long strides away, motioning for his escorts to release Kadar. They practically threw him against the wall and onto the ground, making him wince from the awkward strain on his leg. Just when he was a few meters off, the King turned again and growled, "do not forget, Robert, who raised you to your position. Rise, all of you."

As the Templar knights all took to their feet slowly, Robert looked the other man long and hard in the eyes. "I will not forget, my liege, that it was my good friend _Richard Plantangenet_ who raised me to my position."

After a brief and tense silence, Richard issued just one last command: "Saladin has forfeited the lives of his Mussulmen prisoners by ignoring our terms. We will slay them all tomorrow afternoon, all three thousand of them." He motioned to Kadar, but looked towards the floor. "Bind him up and throw him in the pits with the rest of the infidel scum."

* * *

_End of Chapter 2._

* * *

So I find it funny how in the game it looks like the Templars aren't even aware that all their people are dying. Anyway, I can't get over Kadar and his cuteness. I find him so impressionable and naive, it's adorable. Hopefully you all got some insight into Robert and the nature of the Templar occupation here as well. Next chapter will be more Kadar and Robert one-on-on probably.

**Notes: **

There is speculation that **Richard the Lionheart** had a tendency to appreciate the company of men over women, but we won't delve into that in too much detail in this fic.  
The whole concept of **owing a debt** to the person who saves your life is a driving point of this fic. Kadar feels indebted to Robert and feels like he should trust him; it's a large part of why he has't run, because it's better to pay the debt then and there than to encounter Robert later and have to repay some unknown debt.

**So why does Robert want to keep Kadar safe so much? Will he be able to save Kadar from being executed? Will Kadar escape Acre and be reunited with his assassin brothers? ****_Please review and wait for the next update! _**


	3. Chapter 3

Once the King was out of earshot, Robert ordered his knights to get back to their business and _stop standing around gawking like morons_. Immediately they dispersed in different directions, clearing their throats and rubbing their noses. Then Robert turned on Kadar with all the rage of a sudden sandstorm, "can you ride a horse?"

"Yes," Kadar replied in a pitch higher than he'd have liked.

Robert wasn't convinced, and he barked at Jacques in rapid French, "throw him on a horse and make sure his sutures don't open. I will wait for you at the stables. Do this now before night falls."

Without delay, Jacques snatched Kadar's wrist and towed him along like an admonished child. His fast pace made Kadar nearly have to run to keep up. "W-wait," he cried, following in the knight's footsteps and trying not to bump into anyone coming down the stone corridor. Soon they made their way down a flight of stairs, and Kadar was officially in unknown territory. He'd never seen anything of the Templar fortress beyond the latrines- his days were passed in Jacques' office. On the ground floor, fenestral windows washed the floors and rich rugs with late afternoon light, and the halls were decorated with an overwhelming amount of color. Painted linen, woven tapestries, and fine wool cloths hung from walls and doorways, even the ceilings, each of them unique and foreign. Vast numbers of knights passed them, as they went by in their chain mail and noisy clattering pot helmets. They greeted Jacques with a nod and sometimes saying "Monsieur" as he passed, but then their faces would contort to a look of disgust once they caught sight of Kadar.

He knew by now that something was seriously wrong, but it all came to a head when Jacques continued to ignore his questions and only quickened the pace. "What's going on?" Kadar demanded, now becoming very scared… because he could sense that the Templar was scared. "Where are you taking me?"

Jacques stopped in front of the entrance into the courtyard, where he saw the King speaking to a dignitary. So close, and yet so far… He pushed and shoved Kadar behind a thick stone column, out of sight of the knights milling about inside the fortress and those in the court. He spoke softly, "I cannot be seen holding your hand. The King wants you dead, but you'll live if you _listen_. You will have to bend over, I will hold your wrists behind your back like a prisoner. Then we'll cross the court and you won't say _anything_ to the King. Do you understand?"

Kadar was ready to jump into a river if Jacques told him to. He had never seen such a large concentration of Templar knights before, and he was very close to losing control of his bowels. Each red cross on white was _terrifying_.

But before Jacques could carry on with his end of the plan, Richard's voice carried over the court- "Sir Jacques! …Sirrah, is that Monsieur de Sonnac? I see his cloak…"

"God damn," the blond Templar swore, swivelled his head around, and then narrowed his eyes at Kadar. "Don't run. Don't raise suspicions. Just keep your head down and wait here." With that, he left Kadar behind the pillar and stepped into the court, smiling- "ah, my King! Do you have need of me…?"

Too afraid to look over the pillar at his back to see what was transpiring, Kadar closed his eyes and prayed to God that no one was going to see him. Of course, this wasn't his lucky day. Robert de Sablé rushed past him, saw the King, and swore. Then Robert took two steps back and saw Kadar, scared out of his wits. He cursed again. While Kadar kept hidden, Robert quickly assessed the situation and called on his companion- "grab him, march him, follow me." He cast a look at the Saracen that said '_if you move or say anything, I will slit your belly and feed your entrails to hellhounds'_. Without even a whimper, Kadar allowed himself to be pushed over and his hands were cross and held tightly against his back. He only had a moment to study the fine stone beneath his feet before the knight keeping him still was now pushing him forward with no amount of gentleness, marching him on like he was nothing but a beast being driven to market. Robert followed at a brisk pace, looking the other way. Jacques saw them as they came near, and asked the King a pointedly moronic question. The two Templars hence rushed Kadar across the court and passed the distracted King without being seen.

They were going towards a giant gate leading out into the streets of Acre, and Kadar was momentarily stunned- were they going to open that giant gate for _him?_ Of course not, because Robert ran ahead and motioned for the gatekeepers to open a door smartly embedded in the gate itself. Without questioning, the guards opened the door and the three of them passed through.

"Just let him go here," the knight binding Kadar's wrist suggested in heavily accented Arabic. Kadar started, nearly standing straight up in shock.

Because that was not the voice of a man. "You are a woman?!"

"Shut your mouth," Robert yelled in Frankish, smacking the back of Kadar's head, "you filthy prisoner!" Kadar swallowed down the tears that welled up in his eyes and just _trusted_. His world became condensed into the feeling of the hands behind his back, the _click-click-click_ of Robert's sword against his chain leggings, the sound of his quick impenetrable Frankish, the ground beneath his feet. Soon, the musty smell of horse excrement was added to the list.

They pushed past the footsoldiers stationed just outside the fort and made their way towards the stables. Once they were close enough and relatively out of public sight, Robert sent the woman-knight away, "Maria, go prepare a horse- no, two. Simple horses, nothing fancy. If they ask, tell them we are conducting a reconnaissance."

"Understood." The woman released Kadar and walked ahead of them, allowing the Saracen to see for the first time her features- delicate, but with her hair hidden she could pass for a young man. The woman Maria reached up and lowered the visor to her helm, and suddenly she could be any knight at all.

While she arranged their horses, Robert removed his own thick mantle and draped it over Kadar, who was just straightening and stretching his back. Since Robert was so much taller and bigger, the mantle covered Kadar almost completely, the Templar emblem displaying brazenly –mockingly- over his chest. The actual Templar pulled up the hood to the mantle and let it settle over Kadar's face. "Good."

Meanwhile, Maria was returning from the stables with two horses in tow, each fitted with a double saddle.

Robert lowered the visor to his metal helm, and Kadar nearly did a double take- he and the woman looked nearly identical now, except that she still wore her mantle. She must be wearing some shoulder padding, too. _Nevermind that_, Kadar still couldn't process the fact that she was a woman, in pants, in mail, with- with a _sword!_ All he could do was gape, transfixed. "Get on the first horse and take the lead," the Grand Master ordered, already pushing the dumbfounded Kadar up into the saddle of the second horse. The heavy mantle made the movement difficult, but the novice assassin eventually got one foot in the stirrups, and pulled himself up over the leather saddle. Robert mounted fluidly mounted behind him, his broad chest pressing against Kadar's back.

"You are no longer a prisoner," he told Kadar in a low whisper, his voice sounding oddly hollow behind the visor. "You are now the traveling dignitary we are escorting, so sit up straight and look like a pompous dick." Then he leaned back and made a loud grunt. Ahead of them, Maria dug her heels into her horse's flanks.

And then they were off, riding straight through Acre's heart. Kadar had never even been so deep into Acre before, and his mouth dropped open at the grandeur of it- the fortresses, the meandering walkways, the ocean in the distance and the majestic ships pulling to port… The pennons of hundreds of knights hung upon the walls, a lunatic was crying out in front of the fountain. Merchants lined the alleyways, and there were so many people…!

His admiration was cut short by a gruff voice behind him. "Give me the reins, you idiot! Loop them over you! You're going the wrong way! Goddamn _putain de Saracen_…"

* * *

Once they were out of Acre, Robert made it clear that he could not take Kadar to Masyaf as he needed to return by morning. "But I can give you this horse and may your infidel God protect you," he said instead. The sun was dropping now over the horizon, and soon it was going to be night. "We ride until we pass the last Templar watchtower, and then you should be safe. Do you know the way to Masyaf?"

No, he didn't. A fresh drill of panic seized Kadar, and involuntarily his hand shot out from under the folds of the mantle to grip at Robert's wrist, which were at this moment reaching forward and pulling on the reins to turn their horse left. The Templar was so flush against his back that if Robert relaxed his arms, his hands might fall straight into Kadar's lap. That would be embarrassing. "I don't know the way to Masyaf…" He had an inkling of an idea, though, and Kadar now relaxed his shoulders. Altair always pointed out a certain date tree that seemed to sprout out of the desert miraculously. He knew how to get to that tree from the last Templar watchpost, and from then on he'd know the way to Masyaf.

"That's fine," Robert snapped, "again, your infidel God will protect you."

A thousand questions pushed at Kadar's head, each of them just as urgent as the other. Now being near night, the road to Acre was mostly clear of travelers. Only a few patrolling knights and footsoldiers crossed paths with their small convoy, and to each Maria raised her right fist in a gesture to clear the path. They were not confronted.

"Why does the King want me dead?" Kadar asked when they passed another group of patrolling knights.

Robert guffawed behind him. "Richard Plantagenet does not want you dead- he doesn't know what he wants. He was stressed to a breaking point, and he merely wanted to see that I was loyal to him."

"Do you not obey your King?"

"…I am Grand Master of the Templar Knights, formally appointed by the Church. The King has very little real control over what I choose to do."

Kadar didn't understand… "why not?"

"Because it is the Church, and he hates that I keep secrets from him… or so he thinks I do."

"…uh…?"

Robert didn't care to explain the nuances of European politics and diplomacy; the corruption of the Church in itself could take a day to explain. "I should have expected this… I should have said we were going to keep you and torture you slowly to death, and then maybe he would have had you escorted straight to Masyaf on a flying elephant."

Kadar burst into laughter, causing Maria to twist herself around and shush them behind her mask of steel. "Thank you," he whispered to Robert, whose noncommittal shrug was felt rather than seen. "Why did you go so far to smuggle me out?"

"Because I made a promise."

"…I don't remember a promise…"

"Not to you."

"…oh." Kadar didn't really understand, but he was willing to not press the matter. He pledged himself to silence for the rest of the journey, but within two minutes he realized this was impossible. "Can I ask you things?"

"What things?"

"Questions?"

"If you want." Then the Templar added sardonically, "I can't exactly _go_ anywhere."

Again Kadar resisted the urge to laugh- who knew Robert de Sablé was so funny? "I won't be a bother?"

"…God's throat… you are the _most redundant_…"

"I'm sorry!" Kadar clamped his mouth shut and just wished he could disappear off the face of the earth altogether for his embarrassment. All he wanted was to act brave and courageous like Altair, but here he was apologizing left and right! Now the last of the road faded away, and they galloped into the undulating dunes in the distance. While still seething in his mortification, Kadar heard Maria laugh. Taking this chance, he asked Robert who she was.

"That is Maria Thorpe, of Leicestershire, England. She is my personal steward... I couldn't bring myself to trust any man to handle my affairs, so a woman was the obvious solution. And before you ask, the answer is _no_. She did not reach her position by sharing my bed."

Maria stiffened in front of them and again twisted herself around, lifting her visor and glaring at Robert… but since he was behind Kadar, the assassin bore the brunt of her poisonous gaze. He felt like throwing up. Thank God night was coming and soon he wouldn't be able to see her face. Behind him, Robert was chuckling. "Is she looking? Oui, now you can see that she rose to her position because _her mother mated with a scorpion!_"

"Shut your mouth," she yelled shrilly, "at least I have hair underneath this mail."

"I am perfectly capable of growing a full head of hair," Robert countered playfully, making Kadar feel very awkward at being caught in the middle of a Templar banter. Again, he felt himself quaking at the edge between reality and a surreal fantasy. They were taught to never see the enemy as people- they were infidels, dogs from hell, not even humans. But the more he listened to Robert, the more human he seemed. "The man who marries you will pray for death every day," the knight joked.

"Hurumph," Maria grumbled a low string of English curses before riding ahead just a little to distance herself from Robert's mockery.

"Ahhhh don't be upset, Maria. I don't like to be cursed. God knows how long it'll be until _Richard_ cools his head."

"He won't until you are dead," Maria bit back, "like the Hospitaller and Teutonic Grand Masters-" abruptly she stopped speaking and urged her horse to gallop faster.

Kadar, however, was not fooled. "The Hospitaller and Teutonic Grand Masters are dead?"

Robert debated whether he should answer the question, and then decided that there was no more harm in doing so. Kadar was in no condition and had no skill to attempt an assassination on him. "Yes, the work of your good friend Altair."

Joyously, "so he's alive!"

Bitterly, "very alive. God damn him…"

Kadar bit his lip and tried not to get involved, but he couldn't hold it in for long. The Templars were their sworn enemies. As assassins of the Order, Kadar was taught from a young age that the Templars were evil and corrupt, conquering and plundering the land for all it was worth. "He is doing God's will," he said simply, staring straight ahead even though there was not much to see anymore but for the stars in the sky. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the pommel of his saddle. Behind him, Robert de Sablé scoffed.

"God's will? Your God Allah shows mercy- Saladin fights according to your God's will. Your Creed? It is the manipulation of the worst degree. I _pity_ you."

"You-"

"You do not know for what you fight for, nor whom you kill. You take orders from your Grand Master and you never think to question what it all means."

Now that was taking it too far. From what Kadar had seen of Jacques. Robert was a hypocrite! "You can say the same of yourself, Templar," he retorted venomously, surprising even himself with the trite tone of his voice. "Your knights are forced to follow you without question, even when they don't agree with you."

Sufficiently riled up, Robert's breath came in shallow puffs. "When have my knights not agreed with me, boy? Tell me that."

"They wanted me to be dead!"

"Who?"

"Everyone." Jacques, Alexander… They were made to treat him and tend to him despite their own beliefs. "I know how they looked at me…. I know what they said of me… they wanted me to die and they couldn't understand… couldn't understand why you kept me alive. _I can't understand it_, damn you."

There was no response for a long time. They were riding up a waadi now, up a steep slope of a dry riverbed. Kadar could hardly see where he was going, but behind him Robert sat a whole head higher and seemed to know the terrain like the back of his hand. In front of them, Maria rode on. After a while, Kadar had to wonder if Robert himself knew why he took him in. A few breaths more, and Kadar could no longer stand the silence. "My name is Kadar," he said, proudly, "I am son of Faheem Al-Sayf."

He wasn't expecting a response, but it came by surprise: "my name is Robert, and I am son of Armand de Sablé."

"I was born into the Assassin Order."

"I was born into the Lordship of Anjou."

"…what does that mean?"

"…It means I have a lot of land and I have to serve the King."

"Oh. Well, I have to serve Al Mualim."

"You don't have to if you choose not to."

"You don't have to serve your English King either."

"You're right- I don't," stated Robert bluntly, like it wasn't total blasphemy what he'd just said. "I want to live a new life in Palestine- is that so wrong?"

"What is here for you, Robert?" Kadar couldn't help but wonder, since after all the tales that Sir Jacques told him, why would any Frank want all this sand and dryness over the green and rain of Europe? "There is nothing here- it is a desert."

"There is Jerusalem," the knight gave the standard answer, and then gave one less conventional: "and there is a different life to be had. Here in Palestine, a shipmaster can be a King if he wished… a King can be nothing more than a beggar. Europe is miserable, do you know?" his voice was tired, strained- "there is nothing more for me in Europe but to crawl slowly towards death."

Kadar would have never expected this from Robert- such vulnerability, such human burning, such mortality. It made his own mouth dry. "Why did Altair kill all those men?" Kadar obviously was not going to take Robert's answer as a fact. Al Mualim, in his supreme wisdom, surely had some purpose for killing these Franks that Robert could not understand from his backwards standpoint. Still, Kadar was curious as to what the other thought.

This time Robert wasted no time in jumping to his reply, "because your Grand Master is hungry for power and gold- and he will use and manipulate each and every one of you until the last breath…"

No one insulted the Grand Master and got away with it. Kadar was seething, "but _so are the Templars_."

De Sablé laughed, his chest quaking with the effort of it. "I did not choose to be Grand Master of the Templar Order. I was not even a Templar knight. But now that I am one, I will do the best I can. The Templars are not like the rest of the Crusaders. We do not pillage for pleasure and it is possible to reason with us- it is why Saladin respects us so. It is possible to make trade contracts and peace agreements with him, and it is what we do. The King Richard has waited months for Saladin to present his terms, and in the King's mercy he has spared the Mussulmen prisoners all these months. Saladin is the Sultan and leader of the Arabs, and we are his forthright enemy. So tell me, Kadar Al-Sayf, where exactly does your Assassin's Order come into this equation?"

"I-" Kadar was caught. He never thought of it like that. He never questioned the origins or the purpose of his Order. He was always taught that they were a neutral force, and he'd accepted it without inquiry of the implications of such. "We fight to rid the land of the Templars…"

"Then why don't you join the ranks of Saladin? Why not join his army?"

The Saracen youth had absolutely no response to that.

Robert continued, "I don't understand you assassins. You try to assassinate Saladin, _twice_, and then you assassinate us Christians. What side are you on? It simply seems to me that you slay whoever holds the gold and silver."

"That's not true…"

"Tell me then, who feeds you? Who lends money for you to build your fortresses and buy your arms? Altair's hidden blade- who paid for that?"

"Al Mualim did!"

"And where did he get the money?"

"…I…"

"There is no Arab leader in the land who supports you," Robert rumbled, "there is no Sultan or Emir who sponsors you. The Templars get their funding from Frankish Lords, because we fight for a Holy Cause. We have trade with the Saracens, who support us on this land, and it is a mutually beneficial agreement. What trading agreements do you have, assassin?"

The Order did not associate with trade, to the best of Kadar's knowledge. "We get our gold from… uhmm…"

He could almost feel the victorious glimmer in Robert's eyes, the sharpness of his tongue. "The answer is that you all are _thieves_. No respectable organization trades with assassins. Your Grand Master kills our men using cowardly stealth and puts his Rafiqs in the cities that we conquered legitimately. Then he takes our gold and silver by overtaking the Templar trade routes and establishments. You force our trading partners to trade with the Assassins' Order when they would never otherwise agree to it. Why do you think you are all so rich? If you were truly wanting to wipe the Templars from the land, you would have killed the King."

The King! Kadar's eyes widened- it made so much sense! "Al Mualim knows that," he scowled, though it held none of the energy he wanted to convey. He was feeling sick.

"Of course he does. Everyone knows it. If you'd assassinated the King, then the third Crusade would be over. When King Barbarossa died, three hundred thousand Crusaders left the Holy Land. If King Richard died, the Templars would be gone… as would the trade routes and the gold and silver your Grand Master desires so much. And all of Palestine would know it was the assassins who did it. To kill a Hospitaller Grand Master is one thing- to kill the King of England, the figurehead of Christendom… you would upset both Saladin and the Templars and then you'd be nowhere! You'd drive us from the land but you'd gain nothing, and this is what your Grand Master fears."

No, no, no. This was too much. This was not right. Kadar didn't want to listen anymore. But despite all the contradicting information hurled at him –that made a surprising amount of sense- he still felt he needed to defend Al Mualim. "He… he has his reasons."

"That's right," said Robert, "and that reason being the Crusades being immensely profitable for Palestine. Trade, trade, trade, it is everything. Even the King knows this- that you assassins are merely irritants, working under a false front of justice."

"He _will_ kill the King," Kadar had no idea what he was saying, but he was not going to take these offenses without a rebuttal. So the King wasn't afraid of them? Kadar would make sure Richard understood that they meant business.

"Not before he kills me first. That would be more profitable for your Grand Master, and Richard would not exactly jump to my defense." The Templar sighed, steering their horse to the right. Finally they were out of the waadi, and the ground evened again. He was certainly deep in a tirade at this point, careless of the fact that Kadar was listening intently and perhaps taking metal notes. After some time Kadar's mind stopped trying to wrap itself around all the new insights given to him and just relaxed, enjoying the sound of Robert's voice. "…Because we are powerful, and he is afraid. Richard would rather risk a slight economic backtrack than the rebellion of his strongest military Order. It was not his choice for me to lead the Order. He knows I am intelligent, educated- capable of taking over the power sources in the Holy Land."

"Right, because you were a shipmaster." Kadar wanted it to sound sarcastic, but the knight took it seriously;

"Precisely. You are learning. See, the position of Grand Master is kept until death."

"Oh… and the King would not mind new Grand Masters, is that right?"

"…you're rather sharp for an assassin, aren't you?"

"But… why would you tell me this?" Essentially, Kadar realized that Robert had just told him he was going to die. "If you think I'm going to betray my Brotherhood…"

"I expect nothing from you… you are useless to me…." there was something muffled there behind the visor- Kadar couldn't hear… "…and I wanted to tell the truth." Robert could no longer trust anyone. He could not trust his knights, who did not respect him anyway but for his title. He could not tell Maria, who was like a cat eating out of the palm of the most gracious master… He could not tell Richard, because at the end of the day they were really not _friends_. For months he kept the secret of his inevitable impending doom on his chest, with no one to tell but a Saracen boy, from the Order that was to murder him. How ironic.

But before Kadar could ask a follow up, Maria stopped in front of him, the moonlight outlining her silhouette against the sands… and there in the distance was the flying banner of an approaching Hospitaller. Because they were below a sloping hill, the Hospitallers could not yet see them… yet it would be impossible for them to ride by undetected. The Hospitallers did not answer to the Templar Grand Master, and would no doubt have questions about who they were escorting so late at night. In many ways, Robert was breaking many rules he'd established for himself, and the rival Hospitallers would be more than delighted to use this against him.

"Damn," Robert cursed… "Maria!"

Obediently, Maria reared her horse and turned it expertly in the air, closing the distance towards Robert.

"Take the assassin and deliver him just past the last watchtower," he ordered, already pushing Kadar off the saddle in front of him, much to his surprise. "I will distract the Hospitallers."

"They'll think you're running," Maria was obviously in disagreement, but it seemed whatever playful feud she had with Robert now was completely gone, replaced by an impressive professionalism. _Back and forth, the Templars._ "I'll stay in your place, you take him."

"No, they'll see through your disguise. Go, Maria."

"Wait…!" Kadar called as Maria began to push him bodily onto her horse without apology. "Wait! Tell me! How can I repay my debt to you?! Ro-robert!" He hadn't expected to be separated from Robert so soon. Kadar expected to be told how he could repay his debt at the end of their journey, when they were at last parting. If it was gold, if it was intelligence, at least Kadar could work off of that!

"Go!" Robert waved his arm in an obvious gesture for them to get going.

"Wait!" Kadar was desperate. "Don't leave me in debt of you, _you Templar bastard!"_

"Then you'll _think_ on what I told you, _Saracen dog!"_ Robert exploded, and ended on a note that made it sound like he still had so much more to say… "just do that… Maria! Go!"

And she went.

* * *

Kadar was quiet for a long time. Robert de Sablé wanted him to think, to reflect. It frustrated him because he felt that somehow Robert was telling him a portion of truth that had been denied to him before. He didn't speak to Maria even though he wanted to. To speak to a woman like this was against his code, against everything he'd ever known. He didn't even want to touch her. His hands gripped awkwardly against the rocking saddle just so he wouldn't have to touch her waist.

But Maria just would not shut her mouth. In the back of his mind, Kadar wondered if all the Frankish women were like this… uncivilized, unmodest, forthright and _very unattractive_ as a result. Kadar never worked with women in the Order- they were strictly prohibited. The only women he saw at Masyaf were the wives of the assassins, their daughters, and the concubines decorating its gardens. "What did he tell you?" she demanded, as though he owed her his honesty.

"None of your business," Kadar shot back, still jarred from all that he'd learned.

"Humph," Maria rode on, her breathing slightly laboured by the weight of her armour. She was still a woman, after all. Her body was not made for this sort of stress.

"Will I see him again?" Kadar asked after some time, after they were far away from the approaching Hospitallers who were effectively distracted by Robert and now must be hearing some sort of explanation on his behalf.

"Who, the Grand Master?"

He responded with attitude matching hers, "yes, who else?"

"Likely not. My Master will need to be more careful from this point on…" she added bitterly, "you know, with you assassins on his back." Maria seemed upset, for she continued to go on her unprompted tirade, "taking you in was a mistake. _I told him not to._ He'd gain nothing from it. But _noooo_… men never listen."

His ears perking up, Kadar grasped that he could manipulate this woman's loose mouth. "What do you mean?"

"He made a promise to God when he returned from Solomon's Temple with you in tow. I can't remember what he said exactly, God's Throat… I remember being surprised he still trusted God."

It was not a pleasant feeling, to feel like the universe had an axel and hinge on your being. Kadar swallowed, and suddenly he didn't even want to know. He wanted again to be Malik's brother, the one who only had to do what he was told and didn't have to question. He longed for those simpler times again.

"He promised God that he would do everything in his power to save your life, and he's filled that end of the bargain."

"And what did he want in return…?"

Maria did not pick up on his tremulous voice. "He only prayed that you would be free. Think of it- free. An idiotic wish if I've ever heard one."

"I don't understand," Kadar stated candidly, so tired that he could barely even keep his eyes open. He was in no condition to be thinking these things. "I am already free."

"No," the woman-knight correct him, "no, you are not. Robert has never been free either. Not since his mother was tried for adultery and Richard saved her from hanging… on condition that Robert served him as his vassal for the rest of his life. And then he was made Grand Master of the Templar Order and he was forced to come here."

"O-Oh." He didn't know that about Robert's mother, but suddenly the man's offense previously seemed to make sense. Suddenly, something in him clicked into place. Like a dusty windowpane was broken and now he could finally see the sun…!

"I feel sorry for him," Maria added almost haughtily, as though Kadar was another woman to be gossiped to. She took the same voice as the concubines in the garden, murmuring and giggling among each other. It made a chill run down Kadar's spine. She was speaking far out of turn, particularly for a woman. Even _Sir Jacques_ could not speak out in abuse of Robert, so what right did this women have to do so? She opened her treacherous mouth again, but this time Kadar spoke up for the Templar,

"You shut your mouth, wench. He is your Master and Lord."

Her jaw snapped shut and he couldn't tell if she was angry or embarrassed. Still, Kadar felt no sympathy for her.

One could almost hear the "You misunderstand me, Saracen-" Maria tried to explain, but even though her tone was softer, Kadar was not interested in hearing it.

"No-"

"This is not easy for me either, you must-"

"Silence!"

"…I'm sorry you think this of me."

Ruthless or not, a woman who apologized warranted some respect. "You gave me no choice," Kadar felt compelled to reply, "you must remember your place as a woman."

Maria sighed, a giant heaving of the shoulders. "I'd wished to speak to you as an equal, considering you are not yet a man." Kadar knew she was not meaning to offend him, and realized that now she was carefully guarding her words. "I'd hoped... neither here nor there, I apologize." _My hopes do not matter._ Strangely, he found he preferred her fire over this muted reluctance. He chose to be silent, mulling over this strange development. All Templars were so strange. They wore a mask of evil over their faces, but they were not _truly _djinni underneath. Kadar didn't know what he wanted. _Should he tell her to speak her mind, then? _

Thankfully, Maria did not confuse him any further, and simply rode on dutifully until they neared their destination. "Ah, there is the last watchtower…" she was reluctant to stop, craning her neck from side to side to see that they were not being followed. "Will you go back to Masyaf now?"

Kadar squinted. His throat was closing. "Yes. I'll go back to Masyaf." Already he was dismounting from her horse, wanting nothing more to do with Maria. Developing feelings of sympathy for Robert de Sablé was one thing… it was honourable for a warrior to know his enemy, no? But to know the enemy's woman? That was something else altogether, and Malik would not approve. Altair would not approve either- no, Kadar had to be an honourable man, and not "impose himself" upon a woman, Frankish or not.

"Are you sure?" she called, "are you going to return to be an assassin again…?"

He didn't reply. He had no obligation to reply to her questions. There was no debt between them- she was not Robert de Sablé. She did not save his life. And, of course, if Kadar spoke now, Maria would be able to tell that he was crying. Crying because Robert was never a free man and Kadar was running back to Masyaf's cage like a dumb bird who didn't know any better.

"I am disappointed," she cried after him, her voice fading out of range as Kadar ran without thinking- he couldn't see, it was so dark. He was so tired, his legs were failing him. The watchtower loomed overhead, devoid of any guards who'd all retired (quite unprofessionally) for the night. "…My Master would be disappointed."

He had to find the tree… the date tree and the small oasis… He had to find it. Nevermind everything else- the search, the burning, the questioning. He had to find that one anchor, the place where Altair and Malik stopped to tell him tales of grandeur, the place where he rested and drank and ate on the way to Jerusalem's temple, so confident in himself and in the guidance of Al Mualim. He heard Maria ride away some distance behind him, and knew at once that he was cheated of a horse that Robert promised him. He'd have to walk to Masyaf somehow, or be forced to steal a horse or camel.

_Like the thief that he was. _

No…!

Kadar abruptly turned around and around, and in every direction there was nothing but a monotony of flat sands broken by the occasional dune… shifting and sifting with the winds, here today, gone tomorrow… Where did he think he was going?

He caught sight again, in the dimness of the night's black cloak, the last Templar watchtower. The one he'd just passed.

If Kadar died right here, no one would find him. If he managed to walk to Masyaf, what if no one recognized him? What if Malik was dead? Kadar knew he meant nothing to Altair if Malik was dead… the man would have no sympathy for him… and what would they do when they realized Kadar spent all this time with Templars? They would never accept him back into their ranks again! That is, if they didn't torture him themselves to make sure he was not a spy. And even if Malik were alive, he'd be forced to watch as his own brother was tortured at the order of Al Mualim.

_Al Mualim. _

"Allah!" Kadar cried out, his very being bursting at the seams with things he could not name. "Allah! Allah!" He shouted again and again to the endless sky, vast beyond his means, its largess at once overwhelming and impermeable. Kadar meant nothing! Sobbing, he collapsed into the sand and coughed when the fine grains made its way into his throat….

He could die here. The sand would fill him up and drag him under, and then by morning vultures could be picking apart his flesh.

_No, no, no_. He pushed himself up to his feet, hacking still and surprised that the Templar watchtower was still shrouded in dark. Had they not heard him? No, no, no. Kadar was not going to die out here. He was _not_ going to journey out into the desert on foot, in the dark. He might be ignorant, but he was not a fool. Then, as though God had heard his call, a light was lit from within the tower. It was a spark of light in a world of darkness, a clear direction. The reaction in Kadar was instinctive and instantaneous. With the last of his strength, he scurried towards the watchtower, the only solid reality he knew.

* * *

_End of Chapter 3._

* * *

**What will happen to Kadar now?** Will he somehow find his way back to Masyaf? Will he be caught by the Templars in the watchtower? What does God have in store for him? What will happen to Robert and Jacques? King Richard is supposedly a ginger- _does he even have a soul?! _

Find out in the next chapter, in which Altair makes an appearance. Hopefully Robert's explanations have given more **context to the Battle of Arsuf in AC1**. Personally I don't buy that Richard was such a die-hard Christian that he left it up to God to settle the score. Personally, I think he was starting to suspect Robert and wanted him dead (but by an assassin, so there is no blood on HIS hands). Quite a smart plan, Richard.

I don't plan to make this too long of a fic- maybe there are one or two chapters left.  
_**Please review if you read so the next chapter comes out faster! I really appreciate it as a writer ;)**_


	4. Chapter 4

He didn't know what djinni possessed him to throw himself at the tower's gates and bang his fists against its reverberating iron surface, crying to be let in, _please_.

The two guards who answered did not speak Arabic, and yet they did not appear surprised to see him when they pulled upon the gate. They were, however, angry that he`d made such noise. They looked him up and down with tired eyes before hustling him into the tower. One of them threw a worn blanket at Kadar while the other began patting him down for weapons. As a novice, Kadar was never issued any weapon to begin with, and so he came away clean. He also didn't have any jewellery or precious things on him, much to their disappointment.

"Pilgrim," the one Frank said to the other, "lost, like the lot of 'em. Leave him be, let him rest. We'll deal with him in the morning," the Crusader rubbed his eyes, and again looked at Kadar. His cursory assessment assuring him that the hallowed looking boy was no threat, he and his partner returned up the tower steps to resume their night watch. "Goddamn, I hope he didn't wake anyone… the master will have our hide…" their voices grew fainter, but from the tone of their conversation, Kadar felt he was safe. Once more, the solid reality he knew tipped so quickly into a surreal and absurd world, in which Crusaders threw blankets at him instead of curses.

He held the woollen blanket to his face and cried into it, harshly. He wished Malik where here to wrap his arms around him now… even Altair's rebuke felt softer than the kindness of Crusaders. There was a commotion upstairs. Some words were being spoken, and sounds of distant footfalls were heard above the staircase. This time the language did not even sound like Frankish, or maybe Kadar was simply… too…

…tired…

* * *

When they arrived back to Acre, it was in the young hours of morning. The sky was still dark, but in two or so hours the night would be torn and a new day would press itself onto the port city with insistent vulgarity.

"You did not leave him supplies?"

Maria was on the point of collapse. Despite the strong front she put up, wearing a Knight's chain and hauberk was in itself tiring work. Her shoulders by now were in knots, and her back was seizing with every up and down trot of her horse. "No, my Lord."

Robert did not say anything, though Maria sensed that he was disappointed. "His God will protect him… the Lord Jesus Christ will protect him. I am sure of it."

She could resist no longer. "My Lord," she pleaded, all semblance of coyness or cunning wiped from her tongue, "I desire rest."

They dismounted from their exhausted horses and handed the reins off… to two snoring stable boys. Cursing, Maria threw the reins at them, and they did not even wake.

* * *

Behind Acre there was a sandy plain, marred with gray from tents of war. Faded banners and pennons thrilled and billowed in the wind, which now softly swept the sparse grasses and flowers peppering the earth. It was on this plain that King Richard gathered Salah ad-Din's two thousand seven hundred prisoners.

A group of fifty aristocratic knights watched on. The Hospitallers were here, as were the Knights Teutonic. The Templar Knights, however, lingered to the side of the formation, waiting on their Grand Master. King Richard rode with a brilliant smile, as bright as the radiant midday sun, looking not one bit like a man prepared to massacre a score of men. "Good Day, my friends," he nodded to the Templars, who saluted on their horses by raising their right fists to their breasts. Many had to squint, for the sun was too strong. "Where comes your Grand Master and my friend, Robert de Sablé? It is noon already! …nevermind!" the King waved. All the knights turned their heads and saluted again at the sight of their Grand Master riding up the crest of the plain on the back of a well-muscled Arabian stallion, his white mantle fanning out behind him as he approached. Behind him rode a Templar sergeant carrying Robert's his lance and shield, both shining a polished white with the heavy red cross of the Templar banner.

When he was close enough to see the King waving, Robert waved as well. As he was still helmeted, the sight was strange- to see a warrior in full mail waving so candidly? The Hospitallers to the left scoffed. The Templars looked amongst each other and shrugged.

"What make you of this, Jacques?" A Norwegian knight asked a French one directly on his side, albeit with some difficulty. The mentioned knight narrowed his brows and blinked the sweat out of his eyes, trying to study every line of Robert's body… was this truly Robert?

As though on cue, the Grand Master removed his pot helm from his head and wiped the sweat off his brow. He pulled on the reins of his horse to turn it around, still joking all the while with the King. When he turned, his eyes caught Jacques' for a moment and he registered the panic in those blue eyes.

_What is it?_ The Master mouthed, trying not to draw attention to himself. The King's attention was now focused on all the prisoners being blindfolded and forced into a kneeling position, in long lines across the field.

_Madj Addin is dead,_ Jacques mouthed back, desperately. Of course, Robert could not understand. The night before, news had come that the regent of Jerusalem, Madj Addin, had died. Robert was slated to go to his funeral to show the support of the Templars in Jerusalem. However, Richard had arrived last night on a fuming tirade demanding that Robert not go to the funeral. Again, it was clear that it was another ploy of the King's to test Robert's loyalty at the expense of Templar relations with their partners in the Holy Land. But of course, since Robert was out of Acre delivering Kadar during this time, he had no way of knowing anything that had transpired. And now Richard was surely thinking that Robert had chosen not to attend the funeral as a show of support to _him_… yet if Robert did not go, the reputation of the Templars in Jerusalem would be severely tarnished. This was something Robert would never allow.

"Damn it," Jacques swore between gritted teeth, before clearing his throat. "My Lord Grand Master, may I be excused? There are some _matters_ of yours I have yet to attend to."

Indecision, confusion, surprise. But if there was one man that Robert trusted in his Order, it was Jacques de Sonnac. "…you are excused."

The French knight murmured his condolences to the King, who nodded and gazed back at the sight of the Christian executioners, cloaked in black, stepping up to the first row of bound prisoners… swords raised… Jacques galloped away on a fast horse, but still he did not get away quickly enough to miss the sound of one hundred severed heads hitting the ground at once.

* * *

Women were not allowed in the Templar Order. No, it was more than that. The company of women was a dangerous thing, for by it the old devil had led many men from the straight path to Paradise. No Templar was even allowed to kiss the cheek of his own mother.

Only three people knew of Maria's true identity. First was Robert de Sable, who used her as a personal steward, _whatever that meant._ Jacques did not want to believe that Robert was engaging in… in…

_Unseemly things_ with her, but after all the Grand Master did not choose to be a Templar Knight to begin with. Still, Jacques liked to think that Robert was a chaste and upright man, with his head in the right place. Surely he was not having… he was not… the knight couldn't think it, it was such a sinful and blasphemous thought. But most probably, he reasoned, the Grand Master kept a woman as his personal steward because she would gain nothing by murdering him. The same could not be said for some of the brothers of the Order who wanted him gone.

The second person who knew was of course Jacques himself, since Robert could not lie to the man who was to know everything and keep the books. The third person to know was Richard, who was more than happy to embrace Maria's presence as a bargaining chip against Robert. It was only because Richard indulged Robert and pulled the ropes that Maria was able to remain as a nameless male knight with one coincidence after another.

After dismissing the servants lingering in the hall, Jacques knocked on the door to Robert's chambers and shifted his weight outside, waiting impatiently for the woman to admit him. "It is I," he called, a lump in his throat. "The Senechal."

The door opened, and immediately Jacques dropped his gaze. Already a light blush was working its way up his cheeks against his will. He only saw her leather boots, and then remembered that he was a man. He looked now at a spot above her left shoulder. It was a dangerous thing, even, to look too much upon the face of a woman.

Thankfully, Maria always conducted herself with a fair amount of professionalism. In the Frankish custom, she kept her eyes downcast and her voice demure. "What may I do for you, my Lord?"

"You will ride out to Jerusalem to attend the late regent's funeral as your Master Robert." He briefly explained what had happened the night before. The knight felt that the suggestion was a logical one, since he knew Maria often took the place of Robert at boring formal events at which the Grand Master's presence was a statement in itself even if he said nothing. Jacques personally found it disgusting, but it made sense in that Robert could trust few men to do this on his behalf without thoughts of discrediting him for their own personal gain. Maria, whose standing and survival depended on Robert's favour, would not dare provoke him. "…it is absolutely crucial that the Muslims in Jerusalem understand that the Crusaders, _the Templars_, support and coorperate with them."

"I see… and does my Master know of this?"

Jacques had not expected her to pose any questions, and fumbled with an answer. "He will know soon."

He could not see her face, but her scorn was a sound in itself. "I take orders only from my Master."

"…you will go, madame."

"I will be killed. The assassin Altair will surely expect Monsieur de Sablé to be there, and then he will strike. My loyalty is to my Master, Monsieur. That is all." The nerve of her, she turned her back on the knight and made her way to Robert's desk, where she made a show of shuffling the papers on it and re-arranging them into neat piles.

Jacques had had enough. If Robert asked him to go in his place, he would have followed the command without qualm. He'd sworn an oath to the Temple, after all. But Maria was a woman and was never properly initiated into the Templar Order- she made no such oaths. "Then you belong in a _nunnery_," he hissed, taking on the gilded tongue of a serpent.

The words made Maria freeze on the spot. "I am no whore, Monsieur." She knew what Jacques was thinking, and it was not true… but she had no way to prove it.

"Then what are you?"

"His steward."

"And I am the Senechal."

"….yes…."

"So do not forget who feeds you, clothes you, smuggles linens to you once a month when you bleed. And I pray to the Holy Virgin you continue to bleed, for the day you stop I will personally throw you out."

She was seething, "I am no whore!"

Jacques de Sonnac rarely ever raised his voice, and he was getting close to it. The flush of astonishment at being so near to a woman quickly turned into that of anger. "You would not die for your so called Master!"

"I would," Maria cried, closing her dainty hands into fists. "I would die for my Master."

"Then you will go," Jacques was done speaking to her. He could not stand any more. "Good day, Madame." With an exaggerated motion, he swung his mantle about himself and marched out of the room, not once having even taken one glance at Maria's face or body. He was not sorry for what he'd said or done. If Maria Thorpe was going to dedicate herself to the Templar cause, then she had no power to run from the responsibilities entailing from it.

Later when Robert returned from the mass execution, she was already gone. Jacques informed the Grand Master of where she was headed. The knight from Anjou did not even say anything, just wiped his brow with a rag and nodded stiffly, too exhausted and horrified to form the words.

* * *

"Let's not."

"Let's."

"We'll have no more pottage."

"The Master doesn't want it."

"So we give it to the dirty pilgrim? Are you mad?"

They both turned their heads to look at said pilgrim, still huddled on the ground and watching them with wide eyes. So far he'd been given water and some basic care; they had not killed him, and did not appear like they had plans to. Even when he started to pray, they didn't seem to care. The only reason Kadar was staying in place instead of running was to see if they'd give him at least some supplies for his journey to nowhere. The gate at the base of the tower was unlocked and Kadar had the freedom to leave at any time. But at the very least, he wasn't going to run away until after he'd eaten. None of the guards spoke Arabic so far, but they seemed more interested in their own affairs than him.

"Fine," said one of the men, stifling his own displeasure. "I tell you, Henry, my momma would not have approved. She would've said-"

"Aye, shut it with your mother," the other rolled his eyes and handed the bowl of pottage in his hands to Kadar, who reached up to receive the food with both hands.

Frankish pottage was a strange concoction. It was more or less a thick stew made with a mix of many vegetables and some grains (rice in this case). Kadar had eaten it in this form under Robert`s care and as a thick pudding after wheat, crushed almonds, and egg yolks were added to it. Both forms were highly unappetizing and bland to Kadar, who was used to more lively spices and textures. The Franks, however, quite enjoyed their bland food and pottage.

While he ate, the guards went about their business polishing their weapons for inspection. In the morning Kadar was woken by their call to stand-to, and had to watch in horror as all the soldiers picked up arms and looked like they were going to slaughter each other… except all they did was stand at their posts facing out into the desert, completely still. They stood like that for half an hour before they were stood down, and Kadar was glad he hadn't run because he was certain the riled soldiers (especially those who didn't know he was there yet and that he was a _pilgrim_) possibly would have shot a crossbow bolt at him if they saw him running.

After the breakfast of pottage (and Kadar was later given a piece of coarse English bread), the soldiers flung a pair of sandals at Kadar and just looked at him. They had nothing more to give him, and Kadar didn't know how to ask for more.

"How do we get 'im to leave?"

"Whut?"

"Hurry, before the Master comes down an' sees 'im-"

Kadar didn't understand what they were saying, but suddenly they were all moving with a sense of urgency. They grabbed his arms and began to pull and wrangle him towards the gate, "Go, go! Hurry!"

Caught up in the struggle, Kadar tried to fight back on instinct, shouting to be let go. What was happening? Already there were more shouts in the background, from a number of voices all overwhelming him. But all at once the grip around his arms loosened and dropped away.

The soldiers who were 'escorting' him out were now saluting.

Kadar slowly turned around, his hands up beside his head in a gesture of submission (for he had to play the role of the meek and peaceful pilgrim) and looked on what all the men were saluting. Immediately Kadar dropped his arms- because he knew the pilgrim act was through.

Sir Alexander Whitelock was standing there, frowning at him through a slit in his visor. Cloaked in black with the white Hospitaller cross over his shoulder, he was a shock of dark, a blot of ink spilled on a canvas. The hilt of his sword peeked out from the opening of his cloak, and when he moved to face them more directly, Kadar could see that he was clad also in a full hauberk of steel chain mail coat and leggings.

"A pilgrim, my Lord," one of the soldiers explained easily. "We get a lot of 'em around this time."

"A _pilgrim_…" repeated the Hospitaller knight, looking Kadar up and down and knowing the statement to be a lie. "Alright, he'll come with us then."

"…Sir!"

"We're on our way to Jaffa. Advance party." Already Alexander was motioning for his sergeant to prepare his horse for a double saddle. "We'll take him with us and drop him off on the Pilgrim Path when we cross it."

"…Yes Sir," the guards came to attention and saluted again. With one more calculating look at Kadar, who did not understand a single word of what had just been passed along, Sir Alexander strode out of the tower's main gate. The same two guards once more hooked their muscular arms under Kadar's and pushed him forward, this time more civilly.

"Don't be afraid," the Hospitaller sergeant assured him in Arabic, almost making Kadar jump out of his skin from gratitude. "We will escort you to the pilgrim's path, and then you are free to make your way." He smiled a little to show Kadar he was not to be harmed.

"Ah… good, thank you," the Saracen managed in reply, still in disbelief… "what are you Hospitallers doing here?"

The guards released Kadar and they returned to their posts inside the tower, already chatting each other up about something or another. Meanwhile, the Hospitaller sergeant took over control of Kadar, though he was walked courteously and not bent over like a prisoner. Already two horses were readied and waiting, with one of them already carrying Sir Alexander on its back. The Hospitaller sergeant pointedly did not answer, just accepted a double saddle from a squire and it onto the back of his horse, securing it to the beast. The squire worked to tie their bags of rations, water, and other supplies onto the horse.

"Get on," the sergeant commanded, pointing to the back saddle. The pilgrim path on the way to Jaffa was closer to Masyaf anyway, wasn't it? It would be no loss. Obediently, Kadar climbed on clumsily, secretly glad that he didn't have to be too near Alexander (who really did not like him very much). In doing so he nearly kicked the poor squire in the face.

The sergeant was squinting at Kadar, and he couldn't tell if it was because the knight was puzzled or if the sun was just strong. "You obviously haven't ridden a horse before," he said, "you must come from a village, pilgrim."

….Kadar was clumsy because he was being careful not to tear the sutures in his leg. But since the event played out to his advantage, he only nodded dumbly. "My name is Samir," he told the sergeant.

"I am Lawrence…" Lawrence made a curious face, "you must not be Beduoin then, if you don't state the name of your father and tribe after your own name." _So… who are you?_

"Lawrence!" Sir Alexander was calling, "are we ready?"

"Yes!" dropping his thought, Lawrence quickly pulled himself onto the front saddle, his boots sliding easily into the stirrups. "Good God, it is hot as_ hell!_"

* * *

Altair and Malik used to tell Kadar a story when the days were like this one, when it was too hot to train and (worse yet) too hot to sleep.

The story went like so: _the King of the Arabs walked among all his advisors and generals, holding a magnificent pearl. He asked one advisor, "how much is this worth?"_

"_More than I can comprehend," gushed the advisor, awestruck by the beauty of the pearl. _

"_Then break it in half," said the King, "smash it to pieces."_

"_Milord, I could not waste your resources so!" The advisor rang his hands. "The stone is too precious. It could feed all of Egypt for a month." _

_Nodding, the King awarded the advisor with a robe of honour for his sense, as well as a raise in salary. Next the King stepped towards his General, asking the same question, "how much is this worth?"_

"_More than I can say," babbled the General. _

"_Then break it in half," said the King, "smash it to pieces."_

"_Milord, I could not waste your resources so!" The General shook his head. "The stone is too precious. It could equip two hundred soldiers."_

_Nodding, the King rewarded the General with a gold brocade for his sense, as well as a raise in salary. Next the King stepped towards his servant, asking the same question, "how much is this worth?"_

"_It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," the poor servant barely had the words to describe it. _

"_Then break it in half," said the King, "smash it to pieces."_

_The servant took the stone from the King's outstretched hand, and without hesitation hurled it hard against the alabaster floor. The harsh sound of the translucent pearl shattering was only matched by the gasps of the advisor and general. "You are an idiot!" they cried at the servant, "why did you do that?"_

"_The King's words have more value to me than that of a rock," the black boy replied humbly, bowing his head. _

_Hearing this, the advisor and the general fell to their knees and prostrated themselves at the foot of their King, apologizing again and again. _

Kadar looked to Sir Alexander to his side; now the sergeant was riding in line with the Knight. "What do you think of it?" After a few hours riding with only a few scattered bushes for company, Kadar envisioned that even the coldest and most stern-faced man was ready to have some conversation. The Hospitallers were on their way to Arsuf, near Jaffa, where they would set up a Hospitaller command post and wait for the rest of the Templar and Hospitaller Knights coming in from Acre. Richard had planned the attack on Jaffa weeks ago in secrecy, and the execution of the Saracen prisoners was the signal to act. Salah ad-Din was notified by his spies of the atrocities the Franks had carried out, and now was ready to fight to keep control of Jaffa. On the route to Jaffa they meant to stop on the pilgrim's path to let their 'pilgrim' go free.

"It's a good story," the Hospitaller conceded, and then was silent. He was a quiet man, much unlike Sir Lawrence who babbled on and on and on- at one point Kadar suspected he was being used as Arabic practice.

"What do you think it means?" It was not Sir Lawrence who asked. Surprised, Kadar's gaze flickered to the right where it met Alexander's eyes of brilliant green. He wondered if the fields of France that Jacques so vividly described looked like that. That would be Paradise, would it not?

Kadar never thought that the story had much of a meaning. Altair and Malik told it like men who knew better, but in truth they knew as little as he did. He struggled with the interpretation, feeling the breath squeezed out of him by Alexander's piercing gaze. "The story teaches us to follow authority and to be loyal to our oaths no matter what we can gain by corruption. It teaches us to be honest men." He puffed out his chest. That was good. His teacher would be proud. Malik would be proud.

"I think the King is God," mused Alexander with a wry smile. "The advisor and general are the desires of men- to become wealthy and to win in war. What does God tell _you_ to do, _Samir_?"

Certainly he'd never thought of it like that exactly… "I don't know…"

"Is He saying _go to Masyaf_?"

The sergeant's head swivelled sharply to the right in confusion. Kadar nodded stubbornly.

Alexander laughed, "I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Why are you with me?"

"You're taking me to the pilgrim's path, which is closer to Masyaf."

The knight only laughed harder, reaching down onto his waist belt and withdrawing a waterskin. "Masyaf is to the North, my friend. We ride now to the South." He took a swig of the water and did not ask Kadar if he wanted any.

"What…?" No, no, it couldn't be… had he gotten his directions wrong? Kadar screwed his eyes shut and whimpered, feeling the sergeant's shoulders tense up in front of him. Still, for once in his life Lawrence was quiet this time.

"I think your God…" Alexander strapped the waterskin to his waist once more and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "…wants you with the Templars."

"Wh-why would you think that?"

"Why else would He make you forget? Why did you run to the Templar watchtower for solace last night? Why did Robert de Sablé save you? _Why did you live against a wound that should have taken infection and killed you? _Why didn't _I_ kill you? Don't you see?" He pulled on the reins of his horse to close the distance between them, now riding nearly shoulder to shoulder with Kadar. The control this required was phenomenal… Alexander reached across the space separating them and clasped Kadar's chin in his hand, peering down at that innocent face. "What is your identity worth to you, _Kadar?_"

The dark haired youth was going to vomit. Suddenly his stomach heaved and twisted, and his entire being swayed with the nausea of understanding. "It is my life, it is everything I know." Son of Faheem Al-Sayf. Assassin. Brother of Malik. Friend. One of Allah's Faithful. These things defined Kadar.

"Then break it in half," whispered the Hospitaller against his ear, and then he drew back to speak to his confused sergeant in their own tongue. In the absence of his words and touch, Kadar instead cast his eyes towards the sky and from the burning sun he heard a response:

…_Smash it to pieces_.

* * *

"Why are you still with us, Kadar?"

He could not look away from that distant point in the horizon. Everything else was not reality. His mouth was dry. "…I'm lost."

"What if my sergeant took you to Masyaf?"

"He hates me now. He thinks I lied to him."

"It makes no difference if he hates you. He does what I tell him to do."

"…I… I think I don't want to go back." To the assassins, he was already dead. They'd likely already learned to live without him. Maybe he didn't even matter. Kadar was tired. What was he expecting even if he did find his way back? Kadar didn't even know where all the Bureaus were, having only visited there twice and both times simply following Malik. He was completely disconnected from the Order.

"Ah."

"Do you hate me, too?"

"I don't think anything about you."

"…how long until Jaffa?"

"Days. What will you do?"

"…find Robert de Sablé, ask to… to stay and do things, I suppose. I am a good fighter."

"Ha! _Good fighter_ my arse."

* * *

The Pilgrim's Path was a flat plain of trodden ground, in which was scattered the bones and discarded clothing items of countless pilgrims who fell to the blade of Bedouin bandits. Reaching from the farthest Arab states to the congregation point in Mecca, innumerable pilgrims traveled by this path each year in search of God. When the knights rode up to the valley path in the afternoon, it was empty and breathless.

"This is it, Kadar." Alexander motioned towards the well-worn path, and then faced Kadar expectantly.

"Will Robert de Sablé come to Jaffa?"

"Yes, he would be on his way…"

"Then we go to Jaffa."

"King Richard will kill you."

"I will do as God wills."

He challenged the knight with his eyes, the man who saved his life yet never truly cared. The Hospitaller nodded. "Very well, I will indulge your crazed pilgrimage. Let us pray that our rations last."

* * *

Robert de Sable heard that the Hospitallers sent an advance party, and he took them up on the challenge. "We will get to Arsuf first," he promised his Templars, "and we will be the ones to take Jaffa."

Sir Jacques sighed a little, watching the looks of amazement in the faces of the other knights. Only Jacques knew that the incentive was not Robert's own, but due to Richard's pressing. In truth Robert did not want to arrive at Arsuf first- it was dangerous. However, Richard was pushing the Templars' involvement.

They would ride day and night with no stop on a different path said to take less time. When they found some time to themselves, just before he set out for the long ride to Arsuf, Robert caught Jacques by the arm.

"I have no doubt that the assassin will be waiting for me at Arsuf," he told his knight in a tone that hid his true anxiety. "And if I die," he reached into a pocket lining the inside of his mantle and pulled out a neatly rolled document tied with a red ribbon. "…You are free to go home."

Humbled and overwhelmed with all sorts of feelings that were not so manly, Jacques took the scroll with both hands and bowed to the Grand Master. "You will not die, my Lord," he promised, as if his words meant anything.

Robert chucked, bidding him rise. "_Insha'Allah,_ as they say." He nodded once more to his friend and put on his own helmet, unused to not having Maria at his side. He gazed upon all the men readying their horses at the court, checking their supplies and filling their water skins. She was supposed to be back by now, and he wasn't sure what had happened to her. Still, he had no time to be worried, and could not act on his concerns. He made Jacques agree to take care of her if she returned, and the knight asked if he should call a search party if she did not.

The Grand Master shook his head, knowing full well the repercussions of that on Jacques, Richard, and Maria herself if she were found. "God will keep her, as He will keep me." _And Kadar_, but Robert didn't say that. Without further ado, he mounted his horse and lowered the visor to his helmet. Robert did not wish to die of course, but at times he felt that there was nothing he could do, no course of action he could take to bring himself off the course he was being propelled into.

The former shipmaster felt a sort of morbid humour run through him. How ironic. It was like being on a ship. He could move about on the deck, go below deck, pull the ropes and change the slant of the sails, hit the rudder, but still he could not change the direction of the wind. Nor could he change the weather at sea- he could not control the rogue waves and brutal storms. There was only a small amount of control he had over his life and the direction it went in, and it seemed there was no other end for him now. He imagined his life and death was written down for him as soon as he boarded that ship headed towards Palestine. He could not run away- his station as the Grand Master was bound to him until death. An ocean separated him from his home. And if he ran, they would come after him. Robert was swept up by a wave of fate, and even if he struggled, he'd still be carried along by it until he met his end crashing against a jagged shore.

But if there was one thing he could still do, it was to take his murderer along with him. He could grab Altair as they were both rolling in the waves, and they could die together. If Robert arrived at Arsuf before Richard and before the Hospitallers, he could perhaps convince Salah ad-Din to side with him against the assassins, or at least make him aware of the Order's threat. If Richard would not act on it, perhaps the Sultan of Egypt would.

* * *

The rations lasted. Kadar traveled with the Hospitallers for four whole days. They were in no rush; in fact the Hospitallers seemed to waste as much time as they could as long as they had the resources to do so. "Let the Templars set up our posts," sergeant Lawrence joked, "they're a bunch of fuckers."

Now Kadar rode with Alexander, since Lawrence had a complete change of heart and suddenly detested Kadar. "His brother was killed by an assassin," Sir Alexander explained, as though Kadar could possibly do anything to right it. So they didn't speak anymore. While Kadar was with them, he felt light. Somehow when he did not think of Masyaf and his ties (ties?) to it, he felt free. How ironic it was that in a matter of weeks his perception of these Christian knights had changed so completely… so that now freedom was at the side of a Hospitaller? They came across an oasis, a group of Bedu raiders, a party of Templar knights on the same mission (they chose not to ride together since Robert was not with them and Sir Alexander really did not trust Templars). When Kadar asked why, the Hospitallers said the distrust was mutual and constituted generally more of a rivalry than anything truly menacing.

"Think of your rivalling houses of Islam." Sir Alexander drew his kuffiyeh around his face to keep the sand out. "The Ayybids and Mumluks, the Fatimids, and the Seljuqs. They work together, but they hoist different flags."

Kadar was about to ask a few questions on the subject when the sergeant suddenly jerked on his reins and halted his horse. The animal's ears pressed itself back and it snorted. "We are being followed," he muttered, causing the Hospitaller to halt as well.

"Bedu?" Sir Alexander twisted in his saddle, peering over Kadar's shoulder and squinting to make out the distant fleck of black traveling towards them at the horizon's edge.

"No…" They were still, turning their horses towards the direction where they came and waiting for their pursuer to come closer. The Hospitallers knew that bandits travelled in groups, as did pilgrims, and that Salah ad-Din's officers and reconnaissance would never make the idiotic mistake of riding headfirst towards two Hospitaller knights waving their pennons clear. The figure galloped on a fast horse, and it was obvious that he was in a rush.

Kadar was struck by a bolt of joy. "That is Altair!" He would always recognize that peaked hood, the red sash fluttering at his side like so much blood. "That is Altair!" But as soon as the name left his mouth, he regretted it.

"An assassin?!" Sergeant Lawrence gritted his teeth, looking to Sir Alexander desperately, "please, Sir, let me kill him."

"No!" Kadar cried, his passion stunning both knights. "He is not an assassin," he lied. "He will not hurt you," he promised Lawrence earnestly; _this_ was not a lie. "I know this man."

Lawrence did not seem completely convinced, but with Altair riding ever closer, Sir Alexander instructed his sergeant to move out of the way. He'd heard of Altair's prowess in battle, and was not looking to challenge him. If Kadar exalted his character, then perhaps they could cross paths with no strife. "Very well. Let him ride past, we have no cause at this time."

The Hospitaller stared down his sergeant, his intention clear. They would not get into a meaningless scuffle on the way to Jaffa. Kadar was fighting his voice, more concerned with what he would say if Altair saw him on the same horse as a Hospitaller… what would he say? The shock of seeing Kadar alive and then the added betrayal of finding him friends with a Christian knight…! For this reason, Kadar almost didn't want to make himself known. _Why was Altair going to Arsuf in the first place?_

In the meantime, Lawrence seemed to have made a reluctant decision, and followed Sir Alexander as they hedged off to the right and out of the assassin's way. At this point they could see each individual knife on Altair's belt, the flared nostrils of his horse. Kadar watched him approach, utterly mesmerized so that he couldn't have called out even if he wanted to… Altair's head was down, his peaked hood drawn over his head. Suddenly, all the reasons why he idolized this man came rushing back to Kadar, raising him higher and higher-

And then dropping him long and hard when he saw Altair's hand move to grip at the hilt of one of his throwing knives…

Then everything was chaos. "Shield!" Alexander shouted, raising his own that was resting on a notch of the saddle. But Lawrence did not react quickly enough, for they heard the whistling of a blade in flight followed by a wet _thud_ and crack. Sergeant Lawrence slumped over, a throwing knife embedded nearly to the hilt square in his neck. His arms dropped by his side like a puppet when its strings were cut, and he swayed and fell sideways out of his saddle. His foot was caught in a stirrup and the panicked horse began to run, dragging the man away. The knife must have dislodged itself, since he now left a thick trail of blood against the sands.

Kadar knew instinctively that he was dead. He had seen Altair aim throwing knives at the necks of his targets to sever their spines, or at the very least cause massive bleeding. It helped also that the neck was a weak area for Frankish soldiers and knights- the mail there was loose and flimsy, rarely well protected.

"Fuck!" Sir Alexander swore, pulling out his longsword while rearing his horse abruptly. The horse stood nearly vertical on its hind legs, turning in the air and flipping Kadar off its back at the same time. Then the horse's heavy hooves hit the ground once more and it raced to meet their aggressor. Kadar was still rolling in the sand and dizzied by the impact when he heard the swords clash for the first time. He struggled to gain his footing, through the sky and ground spun around him… he reached out and caught a handful of sand, stained with Lawrence's blood.

_No, no, no… it couldn't be. Altair could not have… _

Kadar pushed himself to his feet and ran with all his might, though his drunken legs were weak and failing him. If only he could get to Altair! He could convince him to stop fighting!

"Altair!" He shouted, from a place deep inside him, and the voice that came forth was alien. "Altair, please! Stop fighting!"

But the assassin was not hearing him. They were some distance away, and Kadar watched them parry and dodge each other's attacks, both determined to kill the other. It seemed now that Sir Alexander had the upper hand, as Altair's horse was skittish and gave ground. The assassin met the backhanded chop with his shortsword, regaining his poise before lunging on his own attack. Then, as quickly as the conflict started, it ended. While Sir Alexander was preparing himself for a charging dive, Altair pulled on his reins and wheeled his horse around, fleeing. Because his Arabian stallion was faster than the heavy Frankish horse Alexander was riding, the knight had no option to give chase.

"God damn!" He roared in Arabic after the retreating assassin, "you fucking _dog!_ How dare you! Where is your honour?!"

Kadar fell to his knees and felt his heart welling up into his throat, wrenching pained gasps from his mouth. _Why had Altair done that?_ The knights did nothing to provoke him! And then he just… _ran!_ It was inconceivable, irrational, and inconsolable. Never in a thousand years could he have expected something like this from his idol, from the man he most sought to emulate. Kadar felt his head was splitting. Altair was gone. He'd killed Lawrence.

Something was cut inside him.

Alexander found him like that, curled up in a ball and sobbing. The knight's eyes were cold, and he did not even stop to look at him. The Hospitaller just rode past, moving towards his dead sergeant's body and murmuring softly in that language Kadar could never understand…

But it sounded like grief, and there was no translation required.

* * *

_End of Chapter 4._

* * *

Because Altair wanted to earn that achievement. Or maybe he thought they were going to charge him?  
Anyway, this story has turned out rather long (this was a long-ass chapter) and it's basically tracking the AC storyline so far. I expect the next chapter to be the last one! The story of the pearl was inspired by a poem by Rumi, though I can't remember the name.

By the way, the execution of **2,700 prisoners in Acre** really happened and was basically the catalyst for the **Battle of Arsuf** against Salah ad-Din. I think we all know what happened to **Maria**, but I kind of want to write what happened. I couldn't fit it in here due to length, but if people are interested in seeing it, I'll jam it into the next chapter to tie things up.

So now the question is: Will Kadar find his way to Robert? Will Altair succeed in assassinating Robert? _**Please leave your feedback and comments :) It means a lot to me as a writer. Thank you! **_


	5. Chapter 5

"You said you owed me your life."

His voice was quiet, the same tone he used to pray just before. Kadar wiped his eyes. "Yes."

"Now you owe me that twice over." Sir Alexander began slowly stripping the armour and mail off of his deceased sergeant, setting them out on the ground. "Come here and put this on," he instructed coldly, "you will act as my sergeant in his absence. When we get to Arsuf, I'll sort you out."

He didn't know what 'sorting out' meant, but Kadar already found himself crawling towards the pile of metal chain. He'd never worn armour like this before. "Won't they find it strange that I am Saracen?"

"No. There are Saracen Christians."

"But I'm not Christian."

Alexander dropped the Norman helmet he was holding, glaring daggers at Kadar. "But are you alive?"

"I- yes?"

"Would you like to _remain_ alive?"

"…Yes…." He put his head down, knowing exactly where this was going. The shock of what had happened was still too great. "I will do as you ask." The mail coat in itself weighed nearly thirty pounds. While Kadar fumbled with the foreign armour, he couldn't help but wonder that Alexander did actually know Arabic after all, and yet pretended he didn't all throughout Kadar's healing process. Kadar doubted that Robert de Sable or Jacques de Sonnac knew that he could in fact speak Arabic.

He watched Alexander attempt to dig a hole in the sand to bury Lawrence; it was not very successful as the grains constantly shifted to replace what was lost. "Help me," the knight ordered, and Kadar complied without hesitation. It was the least he could do.

They gave last rites to Lawrence and Sir Alexander lapsed into his silence again, all goodwill between them gone. He whistled and motioned for Kadar to mount Lawrence's horse.

It was good that Kadar put on the sergeant's armour, for the closer they got to Jaffa, the less time they spent alone. They rode into what looked to be a huge Crusader camp being hastily assembled, and there were soldiers standing everywhere on watch for enemy reconnaissance. It would not have been possible for Kadar to even pass through looking as he did before. There were soldiers coming in from the west; entire battalions of knights, mounted cavalry, light infantry, and archers too. Lines of supply converged here where knights and men congregated in their sections and holding up their separate pennons. Carts overflowing with weaponry and boxes of arrows were being hastily unloaded by footsoldiers. With excitement thrumming in the air, in the distance they could just see across the plain the tips of Jaffa's mosque and temples. Like a beautiful woman waiting in a garden, the Franks' lust was a visible thing- Jaffa was ready to be taken. Black vultures circled lazily overhead, an omen for the bloodshed to come.

And it was not until a soldier rode up to them and addressed them both as 'Sir' that Kadar realized he'd gone too far. Did Alexander mean for him to _fight?_

"I cannot fight against my own brethren." His voice was muffled and echoed bizarrely from behind the visor over his face. He sounded hollow, like an inhuman.

From between the slits he saw Alexander turn towards him, his wide green eyes searching. "They are no more your brethren than they are mine, _assassin_." Flashbacks of Robert, asking him where his loyalty was; asking him why he didn't join Salah ad-Din and his jihad. Alexander prompted him further, "will you join their ranks and fight against us? Against me, then? Against Robert de Sablé?"

Kadar shook his head. That was impossible. A half-section of mounted cavalry passed right in the space between them, separating Kadar from Alexander. They clanked by, steel chain against steel plated saddle, shouting orders at each other. And when they passed, Kadar had lost sight of him. Among the sea of polished metals milling about, it was impossible to tell one man from the next. It occurred to him that he was still on his horse, had stopped moving, and was becoming a bother. He was drawing attention to himself. It would not do if someone approached him and asked him a question- he couldn't speak Frankish at all.

So just to get himself somewhere, he pulled on the reins and willed his exhausted horse to walk past the hay and water, and push forward instead. _Alhumdulilah, I am alive,_ he closed his eyes. Then he opened them again- _Insha'Allah, I remain so._ If God, in his infinite wisdom and mercy, had delivered him to this camp, then Kadar had no choice but to trust that He would preserve him.

Thankfully, the camp was set up so that the central command point was in fact situated in the center, where all the rushing men converged to listen to King Richard issue his commands. As he approached, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, a commotion suddenly broke out behind him. The Crusader soldiers were jumping into action with a wild exhilaration, unsheathing their swords and running to meet the threat-

Kadar was completely overwhelmed; at first he thought_ he _was the threat, but the section of soldiers actually swarmed past him. Something was definitely going on, as the camp's alarm bell was now being rung. He didn't even have the time, space, or skill to turn his horse- Robert de Sablé was calling out to him. "Hospitaller! Stay!" It was in Frankish, but Kadar gathered that Robert assumed him to be a Hospitaller knight, and by the other man's hand motion he surmised that he was meant to stay put. There was King Richard at his side, looking only bemused at best; the twinkle in his eyes set Kadar's stomach in knots. Obviously there was nothing to worry about… right?

He raised his fist to his breast in the way he saw Robert salute the King before, and Richard heartily returned the gesture.

This was a bad idea.

A very bad idea.

Because now the King opened his mouth and began to talk to him. In Frankish.

* * *

There must have been a point in time, a moment in the past, when he could have said- _no_. But somehow Robert missed it. Now he'd travelled too far, and the momentum had taken over. Only a matter of time now before he hit the shore.

Robert shifted on his hips and crossed his broad arms in front of his chest, pretending to be invested in the King's interactions with the Hospitaller. But in reality, he was focused on the scuffle in the distance. The King did not even feel threatened…! Perhaps he knew exactly who it was.

He bit the inside of his cheek, holding back a bit of morbid laughter. Altair Ibn La'ahad… _finally._ How long would it be until the confrontation? Those Crusaders wouldn't hold him back. A few minutes? A half hour? It was like waiting for an execution, and he'd lost the King's attention.

"God's throat, are you dumb, man?"

Richard's question jolted Robert back into the present, and his speeding thoughts came to a halt. The King was motioning and asking the Hospitaller to dismount, but the man wasn't doing anything- he was just sitting there on his horse. And he was facing Robert, though the Grand Master could not see his face behind the metal visor.

"My liege," Robert suggested, "he probably speaks English." The Hospitaller knights of St. John were often English.

"God damn," the King cursed, laughing nervously. "I'm King of the cursed country and I can't even speak the language!" He never cared very much about England. It was an ugly place, and English was an ugly language. "Perchance he knows Arabic?" The King, having lost interest, craned his neck to frown at the slew of men who were being cut down. He was told that it was a Saracen- so perhaps Salah ad-Din had surrendered Jaffa?

Meanwhile, it was a slim chance, but Robert relayed the message to the knight in Arabic. Surprisingly, the man complied immediately. Robert watched him somewhat awkwardly slide off his horse, and his actions looked as though he was used to a smaller horse. And the way he landed on his feet and righted himself… he was used to wearing lighter gear.

His eyes narrowed, and he pushed up his visor as a clear challenge to the other. The Hospitaller didn't move to lift his own, an obvious deviation from regulation. This man was not a knight.

Immediately, Robert's hand shot to the hilt of his longsword. Without waiting for a response, he swung the blade around and used the tip to flick the man's visor up-

-an arrested heartbeat as he beheld the pair of eyes he'd come to know well, that he never thought he'd see again.

And then he flicked it back down and turned away. The Saracen intruder, whom Robert knew to be Altair, had made his way to the command post.

"Come no further!" A crusader called, raising his sword.

The assassin raised an unarmed hand. "Hold a moment! It's words I bring, not steel."

Robert scoffed, eying the huge number of men Altair had just slain. Those were people's sons. Richard, in the meantime, was focused on diplomacy. He scrapped up all the Arabic he knew- "offering terms of surrender, then? It's about time."

"You misunderstand," Altair took on step forward, stopping as all the Templars flinched. "It's Al Mualim who sends me, not Salah ad-Din."

"Assassin! What is the meaning of this?" Richard was a horrible actor, and by the sound of his voice Robert knew that the King was not _truly_ surprised. Still, Richard acted angered, "…and be quick with it!"

Of course the assassin wasted no time in his hefty accusations, "you've a traitor in your midst."

"And he has hired you to kill me? Come to gloat about it before you strike? I won't be taken so easily!" In a show of bravado, Richard removed his own helmet to match Altair's lack of headgear. He was making himself out to spar.

"It's no you I've come to kill! It's him!"

A hush fell over the post. All could see that the King was truly torn- all but Robert, of course, who saw through his façade. "Speak then!" Richard allowed Altair to pass and stand before him. "That I may judge the truth… who is this traitor?"

Altair looked Robert straight and his gaze was a blow as he said his name.

"My lieutenant?!" Laughter.

"He aims to betray!"

Richard quieted, and shook his head. "That's not the way he tells it." He looked pointedly at Robert, a smirk in his eyes. "He seeks revenge against your people for the havoc you've wrought in Acre. And I am inclined to support him." He turned his gaze back to Altair, challenging him to prove him wrong in front of all his men. "Some of my best men were murdered by some of yours."

Altair was hooked onto the bait. "It was I who killed them and for good reason! Hear me out! William of Montferrat: he sought to use his soldiers to take Acre by force." He began to count on his fingers. Watching the exchange with tired eyes, Robert noticed that Altair had no fourth finger on his left hand. "Garnier de Naplouse: he would use his skills to indoctrinate and control any who resisted. Sibrand: he intended to block the ports, preventing your kingdom from providing aid. They betrayed you, and they took their orders from Robert."

"You expect me to believe this outlandish tale?"

"You knew these men, better than I. Are you truly surprised to learn of their ill intentions?"

Ah. There was the question the good King was waiting for. Richard acted shocked. The assassin was passionate, and from the outside it all appeared very believable. All eyes turned to Robert, including Kadar's. By this time a crowd had formed around the post. Sir Alexander came up to Kadar's side and gripped his arm, a clear signal for him not to interfere.

Robert removed his helmet, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "Is this true?" asked the King.

"My liege," since Robert could not take defeat lying down, "it is an assassin that stands before us. These creatures are masters of manipulation…. Of course it isn't true." _I grew up with you, I knew you before you were a King, before you were even a Duke. We were best of friends; I loved you. I would never betray you._

He couldn't say any of it, since the assassin was again speaking- "I've no reason to deceive."

"Oh, but you do!" Robert swung on him, "you're afraid of what will happen to your little fortress. Can it withstand the might of the Saracen and the Crusader army?"

"My concern is for the people of the Holy Land," Altair continued to blaspheme, "and if I must sacrifice myself for there to be peace, so be it."

A gasp came over the crowd. _A martyr!_ This just got better and better. Robert literally could not believe that the King and Altair had no planned all this out together, had not sat down and composed a script of the best things to say to disrepute Robert.

"This is the strange place we find ourselves in…" Richard stroked his red beard, as though totally stunned. In truth, he'd manipulated Altair into the palm of his hand. "…each of you accusing the other."

"There really is no time for this," the Grand Master snarled, because God damnit, for once in his life he was going to take his future in his own hands. No more diplomacy, no more kissing the King's ass. "I must be off to meet with Salah ad-Din and enlist his aid. The longer we delay, the harder this will become." If he were on a boat and it had a fixed course, but there was land in the distance, could he not jump off the boat and swim the rest of the way?

So he jumped- and Richard dragged him back onto deck. "Hold a moment, Robert."

"Why?" He was desperate now- furious, cornered, wondering why in hell Richard wouldn't just _end it_. "What do you intend? Surely you do not believe him?" It was his last appeal to Richard's pity, to that spark of goodness Robert knew was there in the Lion's heart.

"It is a difficult decision, one I cannot make alone. I must leave it in the hands of one wiser than I." He looked to the sky, the expression on his face akin to that of a whirling dervish. "The Lord. Let this be decided by combat. Surely God will side with the one whose cause is righteous."

_God, my ass,_ thought Robert. Richard couldn't depend on God to choose his underwear. But obviously the appeal to God had struck home for the troops, and none would argue against the King lest they want to be condemned for heresy. Humbled, several Templars kneeled to the ground and began to pray while the Crusaders watched with avid fascination. Robert de Sable felt like an animal, a cock stuck into a ring with another, doomed to fight to the death so Richard could win his gamble… except in this case the King literally had nothing to lose. He'd gain the most if Robert lost, of course, but he'd also gain if Altair were to die. He could literally play off both results as the will of God and benefit from it.

Richard the Snakeheart? Richard the Twofaced?

"If this is what you wish." You eat the fruit and throw away the peel. A man was not a piece of fruit… but to Richard, Robert might as well have been an orange.

"It is!"

"So be it." Robert put his helmet back on, honour be damned. He'd seen what an assassin's hidden blade can do to a man, and if he had to die, he wanted to die slowly. Yes- slowly. So Richard could see the life leave him and know that it was just as well that he'd killed Robert himself. "To arms, Assassin!"

The Templar knights rose from their praying and threw themselves at Altair, shouting. Alexander, too, unsheathed his longsword and charged into battle, seeking to avenge the death of his sergeant. Kadar's feet were moving before he even made the decision. Lawrence's sword felt so right in his hands. It didn't matter to him right now that Altair was once his idol and the person he most sought to emulate. At Solomon's Temple, he would have given his life for Altair.

But things had changed. The truth was always there, at the corner of his eye. And now Robert had pushed it to the forefront. It was clear now that Altair would never have given his life for Kadar. Altair killed Lawrence without prompting- for no good reason. He managed to clash against Altair's shortsword, and in his eagle's eyes Kadar saw nothing but hatred. Having been pushed back, Kadar tried to get Altair's attention and lifted his visor, letting Altair see who he was.

Yet in the heat of battle, Altair did not recognize him from just his eyes. Though they were windows to the soul, Altair never thought to consider a soul behind the armour of a knight. It was why he was blind. For the second time now, Altair had not recognized Kadar. So Kadar shouted his name. "Altair! Insha'Allah, please stop! Listen to me!"

And that, Altair heard. His motions slackened as he defended himself against a Templar onslaught, his eyes narrowing and studying the strange Hospitaller that could not possibly have spoken to him. "Altair, I am Kadar. Put down your arms and listen to me!" His words were muffled of course by the helm over his face- it was not made for speaking after all, and Kadar couldn't be sure if he'd heard… Robert was shouting orders to his men, demanding them take advantage of Altair's momentary distraction.

Of course Altair heard _that_ clear as day, and in a flash his decision was made. This Hospitaller was no friend; he was just a _distraction_. With one backhanded swing and upwards twist, he wrenched the sword out of Kadar's clumsy hands and charged him-

Panicked, Kadar accidentally tripped over his own feet and toppled sideways. This caused Altair to miss, and his attention was caught elsewhere by a more experienced knight. Gasping and trying to regain his poise but every muscle and sinew in him crying in exhaustion from the heavy armour, Kadar was the image of gracelessness. He lost his balance again and dropped out of the fight, falling to a heap at King Richard's feet.

Richard looked down at him, and saw his brown eyes and brown skin between the open slit of his visor. Those red brows knitted together at last. "You're a bastard," Kadar spat in the King's direction, a bit of it landing on his leather bound boots. That boot raised itself then and it violently drove itself onto the side of Kadar's helmet. Everything went black for a moment, and then pure white. Church bells Kadar had never heard before rang out in his head.

* * *

Robert knew he was going to die. He'd accepted it. He woke up this morning, when they were still on their way to the camp and could only take infrequent rests in the open desert, and knew he was going to die. He'd woken with a hammering headache, after all. And then he mounted his horse and pulled something in his shin. God was not on his side today, and He was making that fact very clear.

Still, he felt the eyes of his men on him- those who were wounded and recovering, those who watched the scuffle and expected him to outlast the Saracen. But Altair was well trained- sharp as a pin, light as a feather. He moved like a dancer, and between the headache and the pulled shin, Robert could only stumble to keep up. His sword grazed Altair a few times, each time leaving him breathless and overstretched, but each time not cutting deeply enough to draw blood. The assassin swung nimbly away from his next strike, feinting a counterattack before kicking a heel into Robert's knee. The joints crushed and the Templar cried out, not having moved quickly enough to get out of the way. He went on the defensive, springing back on one foot while absorbing the flurry of Altair's blows, each one harder than the last.

His Templars were shouting encouragement, urging him on. Others were beginning to pray again as they sensed the tide had turned against them. King Richard watched on, at times delighted and at times distraught. Now he was not so sure if he'd made the right choice. Watching Robert fight for his life and knowing that it was his own doing… Richard shut his eyes. Yes, it was necessary. Yes, it was unfortunate. But Robert de Sable had to die so he would not raise the Templars to threaten his monarchy. It was the only way.

Unable to tolerate himself, Richard took a rest from watching the losing battle and instead studied the youth at his feet, now writhing in nausea from the concussing strike His four escorts stood behind him, shocked, but still Richard made no move for them to come near.

"Why did he want to save you so?" The King asked Kadar in Arabic that was highly accented, smearing the vomit off his boot and onto Kadar's cheek. He scowled, "and why did you come back, by God? In a knight's armour, no less!"

"Please don't kill him," Kadar begged without shame, fully aware that he was making a scene. The Templars who were not involved in the scuffle with Altair did not know what to make of it. "Please, he is a good man… send him home, you needn't kill him!"

"You blasphemous Saracen fool," Richard took two paces back.

Realizing that Richard needed a legitimate way out that could benefit him politically, Kadar changed his strategy. Obviously, aggravating the King by speaking the truth was not working to his advantage. Meanwhile, more knights were being cut down by Altair. This was an impossible act to the watching Templars, who were unable to act without the orders of their Master. Never before had they seen a Saracen warrior, no matter how well trained, beat such odds.

"Why not demote him if you are so afraid? Make him a shipmaster again."

Richard chewed on his cheek. "I can't. That is the church's jurisdiction."

"But you are the _King!_"

"And the outcome of this battle will be decided by _God!_" And this time, Richard was dead serious. "Just as your God has saved you for whatever reason, the Lord Jesus Christ will come to Robert's aid if it is meant to be." Kadar blinked his eyes with a growing sense of dread, as finally Robert and Altair were the only ones standing. Even Sir Alexander fell to the assassin's sword, and was now being dragged out of the field by a fellow Hospitaller. Robert himself was limping, a bloody gash on his upper leg making his chain leggings gleam a hideous crimson.

Kadar truly did believe in God, and he knew that God was equally merciful to the Christians as He was to those of the Faithful. But Jesus Christ was not God, and he knew the endeavour was doomed by the very start. The tip of the King's sword came to rest at his nape, a clear directive to stay where he was. "What does this life mean to you, boy?" Richard was growling low in his throat, like a crowned lion bragging over a kill that was not his.

_…the King of the Arabs walked among all his advisors and generals, holding a magnificent pearl. He asked one advisor, "how much is this worth?"…_

"Nothing." It wasn't _this_ life that mattered.

Kadar launched himself forward with a vengeance. His feet were wobbly and could barely support him, his arms were weak and trembling, but his mind was strong.

And so he threw himself at them with the ignorant passion of youth. It was unfortunate, but Altair had neither the time nor space to feel sorry when he sliced through the boy's surcoat and chain, revealing his inner tunic streaked with blood. Robert de Sable didn't know what to think of it- why? Why did he come back?

Did Kadar have the audacity to think that he could _save him?_

Altair was quickly gaining the other hand, even with Kadar's sword strikes offering a distraction. "Don't do this," Robert barked at Kadar in Arabic. However, Altair thought Robert was talking to him-

"I have no choice," the hooded assassin snapped, delivering a particularly powerful slash that rattled Robert to the bone when he lifted his sword to intercept it.

"Why couldn't you have just- ugh- _gone back to Masyaf?"_

"I couldn't go back," Kadar swung around Robert's back and struck at Altair from the other side, surprising the other man. Altair once again heard the slight sliver of Arabic filtering through, but he couldn't understand where it was coming from. Surely Robert was still speaking to him? Kadar summoned all the fire in his belly. "Not after I saw what _he'd_ done!" _Lawrence,_ whom Altair killed without reason.

And Robert came to realize at that moment that Kadar was a lost cause. Had been a lost cause since he set foot in Solomon's Temple, since he was born. Like Robert, Kadar's life had been set out for him, outside of his control, outside of any influence. They were both on the same boat, headed inexorably towards shipwreck. All the effort Robert put into saving Kadar, and it all amounted to nothing. His heart started squeezing himself up his throat. No, no.

Not unless Robert could throw him off the ship. The next time Kadar charged forward to deliver a strike, the Templar saw Altair begin to take up a defensive stance… Robert had seen this posture enough times to tell that a devastating counterattack was coming. So he grabbed the back of Kadar's surcoat and pulled hard, stopping him and then pushing him off to the side with great force. This movement gave Altair just enough time to act-

* * *

He didn't hear it happen, just saw Robert begin to fall. he Templar knights surged up in an uproar, but the King's men held them back. From Kadar's eyes, it all seemed to unfurl in slow motion. Every moment was distilled, sharpened, crystallized- Altair's waist twisting, the red sash fluttering as he swung… Robert reacting too slowly, that sharp blade finally striking against his chain and expertly digging into the ridge it'd made- the chain dipped and gave away. The tip of Altair's bloody sword emerged from Robert's back. The cries of Robert's knights, the look of their mouths formed into a ghoulish hole. Robert slowly falling to his knees, Altair pulling out his sword.

King Richard had Kadar pulled back from the scene, kicking and screaming. His ears were bust in the din of the chaos. A pair of strong hands grabbed onto his face and forced him to look straight.

"Be quiet!" the green eyed man was mouthing… it was Sir Alexander. He was haphazardly bandaged and obviously could no longer put weight on his legs, but he was alive.

Slowly, Kadar closed his mouth and the noise faded away. Alexander swore at himself and began to tend to Kadar's chest wound, though it was not very deep. Kadar had a sinking suspicion that Alexander was imply compelled to act now on the sight of blood, even though he'd lamented keeping Kadar alive all those times. Still, why didn't he help Robert?

He looked past the Hospitaller's shoulder, and the sight was too real. Robert could not be saved, and all knew it. No tourniquet could be made on a wound like that.

Altair, as was his custom, caught Robert as he collapsed and laid him down on the ground. The Knights were in an uproar, raising their swords and about to all charge at Altair at the same time. It took a large number of Hospitallers to hold them back. After some hushed words gasped out by Robert in a fragmented mix of Frankish and Arabic, Robert de Sable died. The knights all crossed themselves, drawing the motion of the crucifix over their breast and forehead, lowering their gaze.

"Let him go," Richard extended his hand in solidarity for Altair, letting him pass by the Crusader crowd. The assassin's movements gained a new dimension, became harsher. Of course the men wondered what the late Templar Grand Master had told him before he passed.

In a moment, everything had collapsed around him. "Who is to lead us now?" The Templars asked amongst each other, "who has been here the longest?" They tried to pick out a suitable leader among their own ranks. Robert de Sable was dead, Altair was gone, and Kadar suddenly realized how idiotic he had been… why did he somehow think that there was any future here? And he'd run too far from the assassins and he hadn't come close enough to the Templars. He was in the middle with no group to call kin. And as soon as they found out who he was, they were going to… Kadar remembered how disgusted King Richard had been.

"Kill me now," Kadar whispered desperately to Alexander once Altair was gone. "Kill me. There is nothing left." He was tired. As soon as he said the words, Kadar felt a great flowing calm rush over him. Amidst all the chaos following Robert's death, in which the knights were left without leadership and had to appoint a temporary commander in his place, Kadar found peace at last.

"No," Alexander's brow was furrowed, clearly conflicted. "You will go to the King and beg for your life."

"I will not-"

The knight hooked his fingers under Kadar's steel helm and lifted it clean off. It rolled against the ground, and Kadar's sweaty face was finally uncovered. The sight of his dark brown hair and cinnamon skin caused several knights nearby to pause in their panic. "You will beg," Alexander stated forcefully, and stood up, taking both of Kadar's arms and dragging him to his feet.

"What's the use?" Kadar protested, "he'll order me executed or worse…!"

Alexander looked wary for a moment too, his whole body faltering under Kadar's weight and the weight of his uncertainty. "I don't think so."

Despite all he'd gone through, Kadar was still far too naïve at heart. Just those simple words from Alexander's mouth gave him hope again- false hope perhaps, but hope nonetheless. Kadar looked around him at the knights surrounding the scene, whose faces were caked with dirt and sweat and blood, who were staring at him like he was a curiosity. Indeed, Kadar managed to push past these confused knights and they did not even so much as try to restrain him. Perhaps he looked so pitiful that no one thought him any threat at all.

King Richard was standing beside Robert's body, his head bowed. Someone had draped Robert's cloak and mantle over his body, and immediately the Saracen started to wonder what kind of funeral he would receive.

Kadar had thought briefly of what he was going to say, of course, but what came out of his mouth was always something completely different. "He forgives you," he blurted. The King's shoulders tensed.

"I wish He would."

"Robert is a forgiving person." Was this true? Kadar practically didn't know anything about the man.

"I didn't mean Robert." Catching on to his meaning, Kadar fell silent. The King rounded on him suddenly. "You could have been free. I don't understand."

"I can't be free now, not in spirit, not in soul." The words came out more poetically than he'd imagined in his mind, but it wasn't a bad thing. "Ever since he saved me, I've been… displaced. My loyalty was to him." And Kadar added surreptitiously, "…your majesty."

Richard's hand looped around to the waterskin secured on his belt, which he unhooked and offered to Kadar. "So he is dead now, and your loyalties are severed."

"I can't go back to my Order."

The King slowly lowered the waterskin, seeing as Kadar was not taking it. Perhaps there was a Saracen custom he was not aware of. "Would you rather be a slave?"

"No, not a slave!" Anything but that! As he burst out, the knights circling the King stepped forward with raised hands to restrain Kadar, but the King barred them with his arm. They faltered, looked from the King to Kadar, and backed away grudgingly.

The King continued to speak. "Your skills of the sword are lame as an arse."

"I can learn."

"You deceived me."

"For my loyalties."

"Am I your Master?"

"No, your majesty. God is my Master."

"Then what am I to do with you, wretched dog? How do I know you won't betray me? What have you to offer me?"

"I can teach your men Arabic- I can teach _you_ to speak it better."

"And how are you to teach if you don't know Frankish? Or English? Or German?"

That was a very fair point. Kadar was silent, disillusioned, jaded. At the end of the day, his worth was still measured by his skill- and Malik always used to joke about his lack thereof.

"I can fight for you."

Richard was not convinced, scoffing a little under his breath. He opened his mouth to rebuke him, but a shrill yell to the far left caught their attention- the yell was followed by the sound of a horn. The knights responded immediately, rushing to their formations and grappling for their horses and swords while the other Frankish soldiers scrambled, disorganized. The camp was in chaos- the sound of a battle cry was heard somewhere in the near distance. The Templars, with their new appointed leader, had arranged themselves into a double formation and was already galloping away to the site of engagement. A Frankish force was waging an attack against Salah ad-Din's army. "I have no time for this- the Saracen army will soon be upon us." Every line in Richard's body now tensed for battle. "Fight for what side you like, boy." He brushed past Kadar and ran off to shout orders to his second lieutenant, in charge of his vanguard.

"Hurry," Sir Alexander threw Kadar Lawrence's sword and helmet, "you have a long day ahead of you still."

* * *

The Saracen army was split into squadrons ranged loosely across the field. At a cue, the rear ranks spurred their horses, breaking into a strange quick gait that none of the Christians had ever seen before. The legs on those horses moved laterally in two beats rather than four beats of a gallop, and the archers seated on them were lethally precise with their arrows, timing volleys so that as one horseman fired, his neighbour was nocking the bow. The barrage was continuous and unrelenting. The Franks who survived the first volleys retreated as quickly as their horses could carry them, knowing they could not win a protracted battle against enemy archers. It was better, then, to lead the enemy to the beach where a sword battle could be won.

With Alexander and another squadron of Templars, Kadar waited on the beach of Jaffa, awaiting the Saracen army amidst the calming ebb and flow of the surging tides. The sun was setting, ripping the sky into ribbons of reds and purples. Kadar couldn't help but think that it was a beautiful time and place to die. He hadn't prayed at all today. The King arrived not much later, shouting orders in Frankish that Kadar couldn't understand, but the tone of that voice made him shiver. Lawrence's armour clattered against him, and Sir Alexander regarded him warily, perhaps wondering if he'd made the wrong decision.

Kadar had never had any formal army training- the tactics he learned as assassins were suited for singular movement with the element of surprise. He didn't know how to move with an army, didn't know how to take commands and make them happen. Still, he gripped the reins to Lawrence's horse tight, seating himself forward in the saddle and bracing himself for the battle he knew was to come. Every fibre of his being now focused onto the haze of smoke coming closer and closer towards them- the dust raised by Salah ad-Din's army.

"Shields up!" Cried the King in Frankish, and Kadar panicked because he hadn't understood. Then King Richard remembered he had Hospitallers with him as well, who only spoke English, and so he resorted to barking his orders in Arabic. Thankfully, Kadar reacted just in time and raised his black and white lacquered shield above his face just as a volley of arrows, previously unseen, rained down on them. The tips struck at the shield and glanced off- then the Saracens were upon them. "Hold rank!" Richard cried as a tangle of limbs, horses, camels, and men crashed into the meagre Christian force. A camel armoured in plates swung its neck around and nearly knocked Kadar off his horse, its rider sweeping a long-handled axe against him. Kadar dodged and struck back with his tempered longsword, feeling flesh and bone give under the blade. The rider dropped. Men fell from their horses like grain at harvest. But as one Saracen fell, ten more appeared- the sprawling coils of the Saracen host crashed against them, blood and teeth and shouts and swords.

Kadar couldn't remember very clearly what happened next. The action dissolved into flashes of color, light glinting off of swords, spurts of blood and flesh against the beach to be washed away rhythmically by the unrelenting tide. The standards of the Frankish knights blurred together, as did the colors of the Saracen cavalry- Mumluks and Seljuks and Fatimids- the colors all blended into an indiscernible mix of chaos. In the center, in the eye of the storm, Kadar struck down the men who attacked him. A scimitar glanced at his neck, where his metal helmet met his hauberk. He gave a backhanded swing with the hilt of his sword and heard his attacker cry out. His horse stumbled in the sand but regained his footing- Kadar breathed in a deep breath of salty air, now tasting rusty from blood. At one point a jubilant cry rose among the Templars and together they dug their spurs into their exhausted horses and veered them around. "God wills it!" King Richard cried, his voice cutting sharply through the shrieks and roars of the Saracen cavalry. The knights charged forwards at the disassociating enemy flank. "_Charge!_" Throat raw, Kadar yelled with them and they moved as one. This was it. He'd made his choice.

He never looked back.

* * *

_End of Chapter 5._

* * *

So it's been a while. I had exams and got very busy... Thankfully I will for sure finish this story! Next chapter will be the last, and is coming out very very soon. It will wrap everything up. Hopefully there will be no lose ends. We'll deal with Malik, Maria, Altair, what is going to happen to Kadar, and everything in between.

**Please review if you've read, and let me know your thoughts for this chapter!**I appreciate it.

-Vyscaria


	6. Chapter 6

It had been two years after Kadar's death, after he lost his arm, and Malik was feeling more distraught than ever. Altair was now Grand Master of the Assassin's Order, Malik was his second in command, but still on some days he missed his quiet days in the Jerusalem bureau, where he heard the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer each morning. He spent his days in Masyaf now, overlooking the effects of the Order and overseeing training as Altair did, offering advice whether or not the Grand Master wanted it. Malik had progressed in rank so to say, but increasingly this meant nothing to him. Altair married Maria in the spring, just as the trees budded with blossoms, and the woman was with child. Never before had Malik ever seen him so happy. His heart pinched sometimes with loneliness.

He was making a trip to Jerusalem- he did not ask for Altair's permission, just stated his plans, and the Grand Master had not challenged it. He'd wanted to take the pilgrimage to Mecca this year, while he was still strong, but something in his mind drew him to Jerusalem instead.

He visited the market first, milling around aimlessly, losing himself in the cacophony of its chaos. The vendors yelling across the street, the large cloves of garlic and bushels of herbs hanging from improvised wooden beams. Then there was the smell of roasting almonds and honeyed pistachios stirring in a pot, the same as it'd always been. The nut vendor recognized Malik slowly, each glance shedding another layer off Malik as though he was an onion. Suddenly, recognition- "Malik, my friend! What brings you to Jerusalem? I was under the impression that you'd left."

Malik drew close and accepted a gift of candied pistachios from the vendor, who knew it to be his favourite snack. "Good to see you, Ahmed. I have returned as there are too many good memories here." He didn't say it like he meant it, though, and Ahmed was left to pick him up as always.

The bearded man laughed heartily. "When you first arrived here, you'd hated it."

He chuckled, a little unsettled that he'd grown so bitterly fond of the place that once appeared a prison to him. "Well then, what has changed?"

"Ah," the vendor dropped his stirring spoon into the pot and began counting on his chubby fingers. "I have three sons now and one daughter, praise to Allah. I married Sunbul last month, she is my second wife. God willing, I shall have another child soon."

Malik nodded, took it all in and refused to let his throat close off. But when he spoke, his voice was strained anyway. "And what of the rest of Jerusalem?" Richard the Lionheart came close to taking it some time ago, but he was not able to secure his victory and hence Jerusalem remained in Saracen hands.

"Well, not much has changed… Some Christians still come to visit as pilgrims and traders. Even knights may come as long as they are unarmed- such was the mercy of our Sultan, may he rest in Paradise…" After receiving the latest news and gossip, they parted ways reluctantly. Malik let his eyes wander again as he made his way through the winding streets to the Bureau, taking in the bright veils of the women and their dainty laughter, like bells. He felt arousal stirring in his groin, but always his thoughts wandered to Maria and Altair- the innocent joy they shared, and his arousal felt like a sin. He lowered his gaze and walked on. What were his chances, anyway? He did not know any of them, and figured they would not take well to a strange cripple approaching them out of nowhere.

He was just at the secret door of the Bureau when he noticed a figure flitting about on the rooftops above. _A novice assassin_, he thought immediately, seeing how the man's shadow awkwardly turned to and fro, like he remembered the Bureau was in the vicinity but had forgotten where exactly. Finally the silhouette dropped down, and Malik shook his head and sighed. He made to knock on the door until he heard a shrill shout inside.

He acted immediately, ramming into the wooden door with his shoulder. The door broke open on its hinges, and Malik already had his throwing knives out in his hand and ready to aim it at the intruder. The new Dai was ahead of him, having grabbed a sword and was currently trying to cut down the unknown man. A Christian, Malik decided from his form of dress- a dirtied, sand worn surcoat covering some kind of mail. Then he frowned,_ no, this was not a Christian_. The man wore a turban and used a shortsword as well, the kind made of Damascened steel the Saracens favoured. He easily flicked the Dai's sword out of his hand and across the room in a manoeuvre that Malik had never seen. The Dai fumbled for another weapon while Malik descended on the attacker, who turned to face him.

His hand dropped, limp from shock. The throwing knife clattered to the ground.

"_Kadar?!_" No, this couldn't be right. This was a nightmare. There was no way in hell that the warrior standing in front of him now, who was a bit taller than him, sporting an elegant beard, was his younger brother. But Malik recognized the set of that jaw, the color of those almond eyes, the shape of that nose he'd kissed for thirteen years before Kadar declared it embarrassing.

"_Malik,_" the man breathed, a look of horror crossing over his face. He sheathed his sword in a smooth, elegant motion that did not complement the expression on his face. "I hadn't meant to- not this way…" In the meantime, the new Dai was looking between the two of them, confused. Finally he decided to get out of their way and make some tea.

The older Al-Sayf had not even dared to dream of this moment. And as such, he had no idea what to do or say now. His one working arm hung dead at his side, his jaw was slack. He could only look up and down at the man before him, who was his brother. Kadar, whom he thought was dead. Tears welled up in his eyes and he let them fall. "I thought- I thought you had died."

Kadar shifted on his feet, guiltily. He gave Malik a look that was the same look he gave when he broke something in the house and was embarrassed to admit it. That was the wrong response.

Malik's arm surged to life and a fist formed. Kadar saw it coming but didn't move. The fist softened. "Is it really you?" He touched Kadar's cheek, fingered the thick beard that had grown there. Then fondness again turned to anger. "Where have you been all this time, you ass?!" Kadar scratched his head and wished he'd thought this through.

He knew neither of them wanted to think back to Solomon's Temple, but he decided it was best to start from the beginning, no matter how painful it would be. He motioned to the cushions in the Bureau court, away from the workroom where the Dai would be working. "I thought you were still Dai… I came to find you. Let me explain, please."

Of course, Malik didn't like the impersonal way Kadar was speaking to him, but he was still getting over the shock of finding his brother alive. He formed no words, just followed him to the court. Now he had more time to take in the man before him- he wore a linen surcoat that covered a thin layer of barely visible chain mail. His belt held a waterskin and several pouches, and from the shape of them Malik realized they held throwing knives. A scimitar, pitted and notched with use, hung at his waist unhidden along with the shortsword now sheathed. He wore a white linen turban on his head, very inconspicuous yet elegant; he was dressed like a Saracen soldier from the Sultan's army. A sinking feeling settled in Malik's stomach as he sat down to listen.

Kadar barred nothing from his brother. He told him about Robert de Sable, about the knights he'd met while he recovered, and how they treated him. Malik looked more and more uncomfortable as the story progressed. Kadar told him about Altair, how he'd killed Lawrence in cold blood, the battle between him and Robert, how he never recognized Kadar.

"What happened then?" He asked Malik suddenly, breaking from his story. "I never knew why Altair left so quickly."

"Nothing," Malik snapped. "It was nothing." The picture was becoming clearer. This Kadar was not the same Kadar that came with him to Solomon's Temple, and Malik closed himself off in disappointment. _Could he trust him?_

The other man noticed the change in demeanour, and lowered his eyes. "I could leave. I sense you are disappointed."

"I _am_ disappointed."

"I'm sorry."

The tears came again, this time Malik was laughing along with it. "You always apologize too much, Kadar." The memories assaulted him.

"I'm s- ah." He blinked rapidly, "Yes… that is still my habit." Tentatively, he reached out and touched Malik's shoulder, slowly drawing the two of them together into a somewhat awkward embrace. "I'd heard you lost an arm. I wished it weren't true… I'm sorry." He knew what this would have meant for Malik, the over-achiever, the one who so desired to step out of Altair's shadow. The transition from assassin to Dai would have appeared to Malik as a demotion, a curse.

"And I thought you'd lost your life! Now I find out my brother is not dead, but he comes to me wearing the surcoat of a soldier!" Malik recoiled from the embrace, staring his brother hard in the eyes. "_What is this, Kadar?_"

The younger man bounced on his feet, distraught. "I- it's hard to explain." So Kadar continued his story, watching Malik's face grow more and more red. "I fought with the Christians at Arsuf, and we won. But Sir Alexander- you remember, yes?"

"Yes," Malik grumbled. The green-eyed Hospitaller knight that saved Kadar's life and later came to regret it.

"Sir Alexander died at Arsuf, and I was taken in by the Templars. They took care of me and brought me to Acre, where I became a squire of sorts to Sir Jacques."

His brother's face was blank. "I don't…"

"Jacques is the Templar Knight who took care of me while I recovered. He helped me escape. Do you remember?"

"Ah… yes… what is a squire?"

"I went back to him, and he decided to stay. He was very close to taking me with him to France, did you know? I did things for him. Cleaned his office, polished his weapons, tended to his horse, escorted him… I learned from him, too. I learned how to ride, how to fight on a horse…"

That explained how Kadar fought so well. Malik didn't know whether to be proud or to be devastated. And to think, Kadar could have gone to Europe, to the brutish land of the Christians. Thank God it didn't happen. "...You are a Templar now?"

"No, a spy."

"So you aren't a Templar."

"No. I was a squire to a Knight of the Temple, but one of two. I won't become a knight. I now work as a spy, and I regularly am assigned to obtain information from Saracen camps. It's easier for me as I am, well," he stroked his beard. "_Saracen looking_. I had to dress like this to enter Jerusalem… the Christians are no longer permitted here."

"And you are as frustrating as ever." Now Malik scratched his chin, having taken in all this information. _A spy_. That wasn't too bad. It was almost respectable, somewhat like what the assassins did anyway. But a spy for the _Christians_, using his Saracen appearance to aid in their infidel cause. That was traitorous. He couldn't understand why Kadar would rather work for the Christians- they had no redeeming quality in Malik's eyes, all barbarians and sodomites. Still, the man in front of him appeared wholesome, not a rapist, thief, or a bloodthirsty murderer like Christians were prone to become. "I remembered you in your novice's robes, the one with the gray arms. Hooded, and…" he gestured in a circle with his fingers. "Not so much beard." Then that hand came up and covered his eyes. "Allah, I left you. I left you there when you had been alive. Can you ever forgive me, Kadar?"

Said man reached up and gently pried the hand away. "Malik, you did all you could. I have never blamed you for anything, not ever."

"Then I am confused! Why didn't you come back to us?"

Kadar heaved a sigh and leaned back on the cushions, looking up towards the latticework ceiling of the Jerusalem Bureau. "I couldn't go, not with what I knew about Robert. I was in his debt, do you understand?"

"It was a thing of honour, then."

"Yes."

"I have taught you well," Malik admitted, "but I'd never thought it would be like this. At least you could have let me know you were still alive… I could have…" he couldn't have done anything. At that time he was still recovering himself from his injuries, and shortly after he was brought to Jerusalem. Even if he'd somehow known, he could not have sent anyone to retrieve him. Altair, the only man who could possibly infiltrate a Templar fort, was already occupied. _Malik couldn't have done anything._

"I thought you were dead as well." The younger man's eyes flashed. "And I had no way to sneak out a letter. There were not even any pigeons- the only pigeon I saw while I was there, it was roasted and cooked for me." He didn't tell him how they'd given him chances to return. Malik wouldn't understand the ties he felt to those knights. He had to go back, and even now he had not regretted it.

Malik stared, and it was obvious he was still dead set on that one statement- "come back, Kadar. Come back with me to Masyaf. Altair is Grand Master now." He paused and waited for Kadar to react. There was no reaction. "…you know this?"

A blink. "I am a spy, Malik."

"Then you knew what Robert must have told Altair. You know about Al Mualim."

"Yes."

"Then why did you ask me before, if you knew?"

He did not even hesitate, "you did not trust me enough to explain."

The other man was flabbergasted. He was not used to speaking to Kadar in any other way but to instruct him. And suddenly Kadar was a man of his own, a stranger almost, and he had secrets held in a chest to which Malik had no key by right. Kadar had played him into a trap, and _when had he learned to do this?_ "Come back to Masyaf," Malik said again, this time pleadingly. "Kadar, you will not be persecuted for breaking the rule of the Order. Altair will forgive you. _I forgive you._ You don't know how much…"

"_I can't,_ Malik." With a resolute shake of the head, Kadar made to get up from the cushions, only to have Malik's hand shoot out and grab his wrist. Abruptly, Kadar flicked his wrist and Malik's hand popped off its hold. Kadar looked almost as horrified as his brother did. "I- that was instinctive, I didn't mean to…."

Malik hobbled up to his feet with as much grace as a one-armed man could manage. "Who taught you that?"

Kadar took two steps back. "The knights did."

He slid down again into the cushions, finding his feet could no longer hold him up. "So, you've made your choice. You are with the Christians now."

His brother nodded sadly. "I came to say goodbye. It… I would love nothing more than to join you at Masyaf," here Malik raised his eyes hopefully, "but I now know things that burden my soul. I can never again join the ranks of the assassins, my shame for having deserted it is too strong." This was genuine, and Malik felt it from the bitter set of Kadar's mouth. Some traitors of the Order killed themselves out of guilt- to leave the Order was to decline Paradise, so what was the point of a further life on earth? "I have done too much for the Christians now, and if I were to join you and Altair I would surely be a problem for the two of you. I have come too far to turn back- Malik, do you understand? I owe my life to-"

Malik burst out, "you owe your life to _me!_ I raised you, Kadar, when our parents died. Do you remember?!" Spittle landed on Kadar's face. "You owe those barbarians _nothing_."

"Malik, I just…" he was whimpering now, desperate for Malik to understand. "I can't. I can't work for the Order anymore. _I love you_ and am _forever grateful_ to you, but…" how to explain this? How to put Robert de Sable's lesson into terms Malik could tolerate? Certainly the Order under Altair may be run very differently, but Kadar couldn't take orders from the man who killed Lawrence without mercy, from the man who cut down Robert de Sable. Kadar's return to the Assassin's Order would plunge all of their lives into chaos. "I have seen things from a different perspective. I was at a crossroads with you and I stumbled onto a different path. I chose to keep following that path. That was my decision, and I do not regret it."

Malik wanted to reassure him, tell him he was his brother and by Allah nothing would happen to him, but now he wasn't so certain. "Do you think you have a future with the Christians? They have lost the Crusade, you know."

"There are still ports, Templar strongholds in the cities which Salah ad-Din had not captured." Speaking with the surety of a seasoned General, Kadar smiled. "I have been offered a position as a spy for the Christian army. It is well paid."

Malik took several deep breaths through his nose. He had noticed how Kadar was careful to leave out any identifying clues. He felt a little lightheaded. "So, is your name even Kadar?"

He watched the younger man stroll across the bureau, picking up an incense burner and examining it like he owned it. Malik's fingers twitched. "No," Kadar said, "I am called something else now, but I cannot tell you."

The unspoken statement weighed heavy in the room. Kadar sneezed and put down the incense burner, which trailed a tail of frankincense smoke. The new Dai emerged with a tray of tea, apologizing for the slowness, and he sensed the poisonous atmosphere immediately. He took the tray with him, turned tail, and slunk back into the workroom without another word.

Malik choked, "then you are no longer my brother." He pulled himself to his feet with as much grace as he could muster, his expression impenetrable. An unnamed Christian spy was in the Bureau, armed and staring blatantly upon him. It was an absurd nightmare come true. "You are a Christian infidel-" Kadar cut in, reminding him he was still a Muslim, but it did not slow Malik's tirade. "-You work with the Christian infidels, the barbarians, and even worse- you spy for them. I know not your name or work or intent, and now I must demand you leave." Malik unsheathed his shortsword from his waist and pointed its edge at the man who used to be Kadar. Traitorous tears welled up in his eyes. He never wanted this, not in a million years. For Kadar's own safety, he had to leave.

Though he was trained to be more stoic, Kadar still just barely stopped his face from crumbling. He was too impulsive, always so. In missions sometimes this proved profitable, but what had he truly expected of Malik? Perhaps to him, it was better off that he was dead. "I'm sorry," he said one last time, trying to focus all of his infinite gratitude and longing into his finite eyes. "You will always be my brother."

The sound of flowing water filled the gap between them. Malik did not lower his blade. "I hope you are happy." He began in a poisonous tone, but then sharply his voice tapered to the soft hushed voice he used so many years ago to comfort Kadar when he couldn't sleep.

"I am," Kadar affirmed, desperate to grab on to any hook he had. He didn't want their last encounter to be on venomous terms.

"Happier than you were with me?"

"It's a different kind of happiness."

He sniffed. "Very well." The sword was sheathed. It had been an empty threat from the start. "You have grown. You are your own man now, and I only wish you the best."

"I as well- I will never forget you." Kadar struggled with his words, his fingers twitching at his sides. He wanted to embrace Malik, but he was afraid of what would happen if he did. He might cry. His heart was splitting from the joy of seeing his brother again and also the bitterness that was Malik's disappointment. "I should go."

"Yes."

Kadar brought his fist to his breast. "Safety and-" he was interrupted when Malik suddenly launched himself on him, his one arm wrapping around Kadar's broad back in a pitiful embrace. Both men knew that they could meet one day on opposite ends of each other's swords. But for now, they were joined as one. Of the same blood, the same birthplace, the same childhood. It was God's gift that they should meet again, and also His wisdom that they should part. Kadar set his forehead on Malik's shoulder and breathed in his scent, a strange stabbing sensation spreading through his chest. It was so strong he wondered if this was a trap, if Malik was trying to kill him. But then they pulled away and there was no blood. The pain in his chest carried on.

"Safety and peace, Kadar."

They kissed each other on the cheeks as relatives did when they visited one another. "Goodbye," said Kadar, stepping back and bowing a little out of respect. He waited for Malik to respond, but the other man just stood there, smiling softly. Kadar smiled back, nodding, and turned to scamper up the wall of the bureau like such a trained assassin. He climbed differently than Altair, who used his strong core to derive a relatively straight path of ascension. Instead, Kadar used his dexterity and strong limbs to hop from stone to stone on the rock face in a playful manner so befitting of his personality. Malik also realized this random movement allowed Kadar to evade rocks or weapons thrown at him as he climbed. He made a note to mention this to Altair later. In a moment, Kadar was out of the Bureau and gone- maybe forever, maybe not.

Malik slowly stopped smiling. His cheeks hurt. His lips cramped. The place on his shoulder where Kadar had put his head was stained with a small patch of clear liquid. That spot now burned and tingled, mourning the loss. The sky was getting darker, the light on the wall changed. The new Dai slowly stepped out of hiding, his eyes wide and questioning. Malik would tell him nothing, and if he talked he would regret it. Malik wouldn't even tell Altair- the balance they'd finally managed to establish was still so fragile. Under his breath, he gave a small laugh. "I said goodbye to you when I left you at Solomon's Temple. I refuse to be wrong a second time."

Thankfully, the new Dai of Jerusalem was not feeling suicidal today, and opted to forget that the whole situation ever happened. "So, Dai Malik," he wiped his hands on his robe. "Welcome, and what brings you to my bureau?"

Kadar had grown up, found his own path. Altair and Maria were expecting a child. And what did Malik have? Memories and regrets, some of which were now absolved but he was left with more questions than answers.

He strolled up to the bureau counter and leaned over it, speaking seriously. He couldn't tell this to Altair, he'd only laugh. But this new Dai, who was so desperate to impress him, might just lend him the help he needed. Seeing Kadar again reminded him of the time they were young, when opportunity and time stretched out so far ahead of them that they were drunk on it without knowing. "My friend," he said, "will you help me find a wife?"

"Ah, I must say I was not expecting… that." It was the duty of the Dai to ensure the needs of the assassins were met, and sometimes this included introducing them to certain people in the city. With the Grand Master's written consent, assassins could approach the Dai as a matchmaker of sorts. Back when Malik was Dai, it was rumoured that he would direct assassins looking for wives to cemeteries as a joke.

The new Dai cleared his throat, "do you have the Grand Master's written..." he trailed off as Malik's blank but threatening stare bore into his skull. _That had been a stupid thing to say._ He was more afraid of Malik than Altair himself, so never mind. He laughed uneasily, "_I'm joking... hahaha..._" quickly he went on, "I would be honoured to help you find a wife, Dai Malik."

"It's about time," Malik agreed, his humour restored. "Who knows how much longer I will live? That Altair will be the end of me!" He laughed, a twinkle in his eye. "God willing, I will become a father… maybe my child will be friends with Altair's child, how wonderful would that be?"

The other man smiled too, having never seen Malik in this light before. Something had changed; the ground itself had shifted in some unperceivable way. He closed his ledger. "Alright then, I know of a few good women who live in the area…"

* * *

_End._

* * *

Alright, all, this is it! At the end I still wanted Kadar to go his own way, and I think this way it melds more closely with the original canon storyline. I hope I made it believable and tied up the loose ends. Poor Malik, his words foreshadow his future. I still get all sad when I think about what eventually happens to Malik. **Thanks for reading** (this was really not meant to be this long omg) and **please leave some feedback in the box below! Thank you!**

-Vyscaria


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